The Proper Etiquette
by snarechan
Summary: What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.
1. Greetings and salutations

The Proper Etiquette

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Mentions of Trent/Mikaela, Sam/Mikaela  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Adventure/AU  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, violence, spoilerish for the 2007 movie  
**Status**: Continuation, 1/?  
**Summary**: (2007 Movie Verse) What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.

**Notes**: This started off as a gift to a friend of mine by the name of Jyuu. Now, Jyuu loves the Autobot known as Tracks, but I am far better versed in Beast Wars, the 2007/2009 movies, and Animated – none of which involve this character. So in a roundabout way I cheated, but, well, this story somehow got out of hand and turned into a far bigger project than I had intended. I guess that's what I get for trying to take an easier road. ;D

Though the story doesn't interfere with the plot of the first movie, my story does not coexist with anything that happens in the time before, during and after the second movie. So I'm putting 'alternate universe' on this.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Prologue –

**Tranquility, Nevada**

Trent DeMarco was going to go through with it. The timing was perfect; he knew there was no way such a chance would come up for him again. He'd been talking about it for months, actually putting forth the effort to plan it out, save up, and keep to his word.

It wasn't always easy. Though he had the confidence, the drive had waned once or twice – not that he was _afraid _or anything, but what he was proposing to do was quite the ambitious undertaking. However, there was nothing more he wanted in the world to do, and that gave him the extra boost he needed to hold out that much longer.

After he got back from tossing up his hat, letting out a chorus of whoops and gratified cheers of independence, and still wearing his graduation robes, it was all he could think about. Even now, while mingling and partying at his dad's house with the people he'd been hanging out with since sixth grade, it was all he could _speak _about, too.

"I still can't believe it," he heard for what must have been the millionth time, this instance thanks to one of his football buddies by the name of Kenneth. "Especially with that truck of yours."

The other's girlfriend, some brunette he could only recall by face and not name, whom he was hanging off of, was quick to chime in with, "Me neither; and all by yourself, too! That's some big plans you got going."

Shrugging, Trent smiled wider, quick to take hold of the attention and revel in it. This would probably be the last time he saw most, if not all, of his guests and ex-classmates for a very long time, if ever again, so he had some extra soaking up to do to make up for all that he was going to miss.

"What can I say? Big plans for a big guy."

The girl laughed sweetly, and was joined by some of her friends. Trent didn't know a single one of them by name, either, though he recognized a few others by appearances. One girl was from the cheerleading squad and another, he assumed, might have been from one of the sports clubs the high school hosted for supporting the different teams. The rest didn't ring a bell in the slightest.

"Are you talking about that same old thing again?" a curly blonde-haired chick – Number One, he mentally associated, since she was on the cheerleading squad – asked, smiling prettily. "If I didn't know you better, Mr. Star Quarterback, I'd say you're obsessed with this idea of yours!"

A second, curly blonde-haired chick – who he could not begin to place – added, "Yeah! If you love it so much, why don't you marry it, huh?"

Everyone stared at her blankly for a heartbeat, confused at her words and, more or less, dubbing her insane before returning to the topic at hand and dismissing her statement.

"Can you blame me? Nothing is going to compare to it, not with what I have planned."

He grabbed an untouched drink from a passerby, the guy he'd snatched it from giving him a surprised look before shrugging and going to get another one. No one thought any different of him for just taking what he wanted.

"Still, there's got to be an easier way to do it. Can't you, like…just fly or something? That would be so much faster than the long hours you've got planned. Might be way cheaper, too, what with these bogus gas prices."

Trent shrugged the other off. He had already considered all that, but came to the conclusion that it just wouldn't be the same, and he said as much.

"Dude, don't worry about it! I have it _all _covered, down to the very last detail. Money sure as hell isn't an issue; been saving up gift and side-job money for a while, and besides, my old man is a lawyer. He's loaded, remember? As a going-away present he gave me a credit card, for 'emergencies.'" A customary eye-roll was thrown in for the last part, everyone well aware that emergencies would have little to do with what such a thing would be used for.

"I believe you, Trent," the original girl said, a hand absently brushing her dark hair aside. "What I don't understand is what the huge deal is. There's nothing for you there, you know?"

He laughed, like it was the stupidest thing anyone could have said. In his mind, it was, because for him it had been obvious from the beginning. By now, he would have figured at least someone might have seen it his way, bearing in mind how much effort had been put into it and how much he had explained. Such children he was surrounded by! Ignoring her question for the moment, he turned to survey the party he had been throwing. It was in full swing at this hour, every popular kid worth their salt in attendance, some from schools outside his own.

"Babe, this is the last summer we've got before college, and I'm not about to waste it. So I'm going to turn this into the adventure of a lifetime and take control of my last chance at freedom!"

As he justified his goal, his voice became louder, countless eyes starting in his direction. Hopping up onto the nearest table, he held up his drink like some holy challis, his words ringing out.

A chorus had started, softly at first, before growing in volume, a single, unified chant ringing out as every party member yelled out: "ROAD TRIP!"

* * *

Chapter One –

_**Space, 119 miles from Earth**_

_In the dark, white letters appear in rapid succession, flashing across a black screen at a minimum speed of sixty-three milliseconds per sentence. Though none would realize it, such a sight has been occurring for precisely one year, four months, seven days, twelve hours, and twenty-three minutes. The current speed and extended length of the procedure suggests that only a machine could be capable of such an amazing feat, as further evidenced by the methodical way all the information is absorbed and stored away._

_Nothing else could hope to catch even a glimpse of what is being accessed so purposefully, save another technological device of similar capabilities. Even then, no known computer could keep up with every single word with perfect accuracy, but perhaps it could do enough to at least catch any reoccurring themes in the accessed streams of data – Earth, humans, communication, Autobots. All of this and more comes and goes as different feeds are found and utilized._

_Then suddenly, red is everywhere. What appear to be warnings pop up and take precedence over the monitor, the text from before dismissed by scales indicating raised temperatures, graphs breaking down power levels and odd, flashing symbols that spell out the dangers of what is happening. Every single one says the same thing upon review._

_From the third planet of the inner Solar System, when the clock strikes 11:01 P.M eastern time, a shooting star can be seen blazing through the atmosphere.

* * *

_

**New York City, New York**

The first thing Trent noticed about the city was that it was loud. _Very _loud. This fact alone didn't surprise him; he had always expected that impression from what he'd read and seen of the place. But television and magazines didn't do the place any justice. Back home, when he had been looking into visiting, somewhere he'd seen a small blurb stating that Times Square was some seventy-plus decibels – but there was no way of telling how noisy that is until you experienced it in person. It was a good thing he didn't make it a habit to think, because it seemed impossible to do so, whether he wanted to or not.

That wasn't to say he wasn't glad to be there – the complete opposite was true. The commotion of everyday life spoke to him of action and countless comings and goings, making it impossible to get bored. Something new was introduced to him no matter where he moved. To put it simply, he was coming to enjoy the Big Apple.

After checking into his hotel, it was decided that some exploration was in order. Having been cooped up in a truck for _forever, _he was tired of the cramped space to the point of near self-induced claustrophobia. As an athlete, he thrived on activity, and the opportunity to stretch was a welcome relief. Not knowing, nor caring, where he was going, he took off in a single direction and went with it. There was a lot of time to kill, which left him more than ample room to sightsee, from enjoying a hotdog from one of the street vendors to checking out close to every landmark in walking distance.

But that was earlier during the daylight hours. As the sun went down and the night lights went up, the hours of real fun were about to begin. There was a friend of his that had moved here last year after his own graduation that he remained in contact with and who had volunteered to be his personal club-hopping tour guide when he arrived. Being nineteen now, it would be a snap to get into even the best NYC had to offer, though he couldn't drink…technically. His fake identification said otherwise.

A glance at his wristwatch warned that he didn't have much time left before his acquaintance would arrive. That didn't stop him from making a last appearance check, dashing in front of the vanity to adjust his shirt sleeves and collar. For his first night on the town he had donned his lucky blue dress shirt, knowing for a fact that it brought out his eyes. His mother had told him so. Expertly sliding a hand through his hair, he flashed his reflection a white-toothed smile.

Oh yeah, he was the incarnate of perfection.

His look approved, he grabbed hold of his wallet and room key and left to head down to the lobby via elevator. Such a trip was uneventful, and for the most part he was by himself for it, save the two men who got on after him around the fifth floor. Trent towered over the both of them, his final growth spurt having granted him the ability to look down on a lot of people. From the looks of them, they must have been some kind of business men, their clothes black-and-white suits.

"So, you heading to some high-residence party?" he spoke bluntly, mindset already in the mingling mood and hands stuffed casually into his pockets.

The guy to his right flipped up his sunglasses, giving him a surveying look, before offering him a grin – if you even wanted to call it that. Trent saw right through such a façade, recognizing it for what it was really worth. That kind of shit-eating grin that CEOs or lawyers or snakes would give if they had the capability; know-it-alls in superior positions gave such an expression when they wished to humor those they thought below them. He got that kind of expression a lot and knew how to throw it right back in return.

"Sure kid; you could say that."

"Kid?" he laughed. "Man, I'm old enough to die for this country. That doesn't make me a kid anymore."

"Heh, yeah. Right."

Frowning, by the time he had determined whether that was sarcasm or not, there came a ding announcing their arrival to the street-level floor. The three occupants exited without further comment, two going straight for the revolving doors and he towards the front desk. Another guy was waiting there already, and at the sight of him the guy cheered, waving at him.

"Trent, buddy!"

Coming closer, he reached out and tapped the other's knuckles with his own in greeting.

"Michael; long time no see! How's the college league treating you?"

"Brutally," the other said good-naturedly. "And I can see that you're still soft from high school."

As soon as he said that, he put Trent into a mock headlock, swinging him low and giving him a noogie right there in public.

"Hey! Not the hair!"

"You've got enough gel in there to protect it from a jackhammer. I don't think mussing is a problem." Despite his words, he did relent, lowering his arm to leave it around the other's shoulders instead. "So where's that sweet ride of yours you've been telling me about, huh? I've been dying to see it!"

"And you'll die at the sight of it, too," Trent stated confidently, leading the way.

He had paid extra to have an underground parking space, not wanting to risk his pride and joy getting broken into, stolen, or rammed by some crazy taxi driver. Having heard all the horror stories of such instances, he had brought it upon himself to ensure that nothing would be left to chance. Too much money, effort, and begging had gone into this to test the streets of New York.

Parked nearest to the door, the vehicle glowed with a light of its own, and when he bestowed it before Michael's eyes, they opened to about twice their size, an appreciative whistle given out and drool practically dripping at both corners of his mouth. It was just the reaction he was going for, taking into account his blue Hummer H3, with its glimmering 42's, which were showing off even in the dim lighting of the garage. The leather interior looked gorgeous as well, appearing as new as the day he had bought it.

"Holy shit."

"Did I tell you or did I tell you?" Trent took the chance to gloat, a smirk accompanying his smug expression.

"Dude, this is better than you described it to me!" Sidling up next to it, his friend felt along its frame and looked tempted to hug the exterior. "Oh _yeah._ What did you call this baby? Stacy? Laurie? Come on; tell me you named this piece of heaven Laurie."

"Try Carol."

"Carol…ah, what a glorious name."

Michael reached for the driver's side door, but Trent pushed it firmly closed, going so far as to lean against it to make his point.

"No way, man. My car, my skills."

"Alright, alright, it's cool," Michael sighed, raising both hands up in surrender, trying to placate him. "I'll be a backseat driver and tell you where to go from here, then."

Rolling his eyes, he responded with, "I think that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Where are we going to, anyway?"

Entering the vehicle, Michael went on to say that they weren't going to one, but _several _clubs and bars. Making a name for himself here had given him free access to a load of big-name locations and entrance to even larger secluded or selective joints. There were a few within walking distance and they had both planned on hitting them up soon, but getting familiar with the area had taught his friend that it was more beneficial to drive out to the farthest point – if not to beat some of the centered locals to getting inside first, then to get them out of the way so when you were so drunk you couldn't keep on the road you could resort to your feet.

"You're going to _love _this place, let me tell you! It takes over an entire building, so the party spans all the floors, and each of them are themed. It's so well-known, reservations are a must, but since I knew you were coming I already booked us in," Trent was informed. "Oh, and take a right here. We'll want to cut across town."

"How'd you even hear about this place? If you ask me, it sounds out of your way."

Shrugging, Michael started fiddling with the radio, to the younger jock's chagrin, before deigning to comment, "You're popular, so you know how it goes. When you're invited somewhere respectable like that, you don't say no! Especially not when the girl requesting your presence is the mayor's daughter."

"Pfft, you dog."

"Don't I know it!"

Stopping on some rock channel, the music carried on for a while, blaring and screaming out of his massive speakers to shake the windows. In unison, they bobbed their heads to the tune, then together bemoaned as it ended to cut right into a news reel. Convinced there had to be something else on that rivaled a monotone voice listing off the week's events, Trent reached to switch to another channel.

"Now hold on, that one sounds interesting," the other started.

Pausing, Trent let his hand linger close to the dial, absorbing what was being said.

"And in light of today being the anniversary of the attack on Mission City, further investigations have been brought against the United States government concerning-"

"Oh please, not _this _bullshit again!" he snapped, already predicting what was going to be said and swiftly changing stations to something hip-hop orientated.

"I was trying to listen to that! That weird invasion went down near where you live, didn't it? You'd think it would have more interest for you. Also, turn left at the next light."

"It's _exactly _for that reason I want nothing to do with that sort of stuff! All I've heard is 'giant alien robots' this and 'computer experiments gone wrong' that. For over a year people have been flocking my town with crazy stories. This left?"

"Yeah, then take the road to the very end. And are you trying to tell me that you don't believe any of that happened? Mission City was toasted! Not to mention there are those reports from the Middle East."

"Yeah, I'm saying it isn't real. If you ask me, there's not enough proof. That stuff in Mission looked staged; probably some Hollywood movie production under tight wraps, or maybe it was just a publicity stunt. As for those photos from – oh, was I supposed to turn there? – Qatar are so grainy the blobs in them could be anything."

Michael made a sound of disbelief, motioning him to the left. "Nah, you can take that turn coming up, though. We're almost there. But just consider the evidence! _Something _must have happened. I'm a reasonable guy myself, but I can't ignore the possibility that something that could blow my mind is waiting out there."

"You've been watching too much Cloverfield," Trent remarked, trying to deviate from the subject.

"First of all, I've only seen that movie seven times, and secondly, iRobot would give me better conspiracy material."

Growing testier, he tossed back with, "Stop being such a dork and talk about sports; you're hurting your image."

"Okay, I'll drop, but I'm still convinced we're not alone on this planet. Take this side street here, it'll lead you behind the building where there's parking."

Following the other's instructions, he passed by a bunch of cars docked to the side. The place was cramped by regular standards, but his H3 was able to squeeze past. He also took in the line as they drove past the entrance – which didn't exist. People could judge a place by the length of those, and the smaller a line was, the swankier, more expensive the place was.

"You noticed that too, huh?" his friend chuckled. "We're still early. It doesn't open until around past midnight unless you're a golden card member, and this place is pure invite. At least one person per group has to join, and it so happens that I have. Well, and you need to be twenty-one, but I trust that won't be an issue?"

"Not in the slightest. I got it covered."

"Yeah, I figured as much."

The parking space out back was secluded and surrounded by buildings on every side. It was deceptive though, it being a multi-level parking garage, so there was no lack of space. It was also heavily protected with barbed wire fencing and a check-in booth with an actual person. Michael flashed a shiny bit of plastic at the guy that got them in and a ticket that designated their parking spot; number seventeen on the second floor.

"You ready for round one?"

"Heh, I was born ready."

"Then let's get this party started, shall we? The night isn't getting any younger!"

Making their way to the front, there was a bit of a line by the time they got there, but it consisted of three groups. A wave of golden cards and I.D.s had them being ushered inside, and when it was their turn, the same swift process was done, save for a single, miniscule detail… His driver's license wasn't on him. Er…his _real _card was, but his fake copy had been forgotten back in the car, or so he hoped as he found all his pockets empty and his wallet just as lacking.

"No identification, no entrance," boomed Mr. Guard, the bouncer appearing more and more like a _hit_man than a _door_man. His hands were even flexing, forming fists that had his leather gloves creaking.

"I must have left it behind by mistake. I'll go and get it, so hold on a second."

Apologizing to the both of them, he about-faced and jogged back to his vehicle, showing the access ticket in passing so as to re-enter. At least it was a comfort to return and see his ride in the same condition as he'd left it. Unlocking it remotely, he wrenched open the door and searched from top to bottom, stumbling across it on the floor by the pedals. Victorious, he restored the interior to how he'd found it and locked it with the intent of heading back to the club.

That was, until his ears picked up a sound that gave him pause. Whatever it was, the noise was gaining in volume, indicating that the source was coming closer. Yet, when he inclined his head to inspect the area, there was nothing out of the ordinary to be spotted. There had to be though…Trent was picking up a high-pitched whistle from…up above?

No, it was more like a freight train.

A bright freight train on _fire, _he discovered, as something bright white and orange came crashing through the ceiling. There was so much force behind the impact it sent his two-hundred-pound muscle-bound self flying off his feet and over the edge of the lot, metal debris, cement and other materials joining his descent. There came some screaming from him, too, but over the noise of everything else that was happening none could have picked up on it.

After that, he awoke blurry and sluggish at best, due to what had to have been multiple factors playing harshly against him. Disorientated, he tried focusing on one thing at a time, none of it making any sense. His five senses were going haywire – the smell of burnt things permeated the air, he felt energized and numb at the same time, a ringing in his ears was accompanied by cracking, his mouth tasted of copper…and strangest of all, he couldn't see the ground.

Lips twitching into a frown, he strained to sit up and found such a task impossible. Wherever he put his hands, the earth would unexpectedly move away from him. An intense staring contest revealed the reasoning behind that to be because he was sitting on a mound of trash. A couple of bags seemed to have exploded with his extra weight, covering him in leftovers and unmentionables he would later appreciate not remembering. He still didn't have enough sense about him to know that that refuse had more than likely saved his life.

Giving the task of checking out his surroundings one more try, another staring competition revealed that the ground wasn't necessarily missing, but in fact, it was a _crater _sitting there several feet in front of him.

A crater that had a giant hand coming out of it. Claw-like fingers grappled with the edges of its containment, and then a thick appendage looped over to rest horizontally from it. A silver body was crawling its way out of the hole, another arm seeking purchase and then…two glowing, blue orbs like eyes peeked at him. The newcomer appeared equally surprised to see him as he was to see it, the creature losing its grip before righting itself.

Trent could only lay there and watch in an absentminded sort of horror as some… _bizarre _creature pulled itself closer to his prone form. _Not a creature, _he realized, _but…a machine! _There was no other way to interpret the frayed wires sticking out at various angles or the metallic creaking that was made as it shifted. _A robot_, he corrected himself again.

_So they do exist…_

Successfully making its way out of the sizzling, gaping hole, its fully-revealed form looked as banged up as he felt. Black scorch marks blemished some parts of it, and sparks would go flying from a joint. At its total height – a judgment he had to greatly estimate, since he was flat on his back – it must have reached a good sixteen feet. What made him nervous, despite all that, was the mere fact that it was purposely coming towards him. In his poor state there were the predictable amounts of apprehension and fear, but also anger. He might be ten seconds away from dying and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it – not even scream; his mouth wasn't working enough for such a task.

Gazing into those shining bulbs, he saw his life flashing in front of him. But not like how it had been described to him in the past. The experience was out of his mind and beyond the body, a phrase summing up his ambitions, desires, truths, and _life _into a single, understandable thought: _I'm not ready to fucking die today. _Simple, sweet, and to the point, it wasn't so much a summary of his existence as it was proof that he still had so much to do and no more time to do it in. Never mind his brain wasn't in the condition to remember all the loves lost, the parties left unattended, and that football scholarship he was never going to get to use.

He also really, really, _really _wanted his mom.

The bipedal machine from space, or government malfunction, or _whatever _it was, approached and leaned down to peer at him, seeming…fascinated was the closest word. Not that he could say for sure, because as far as body language or facial expressions were concerned, there was no such thing, accounting for the fact that it wasn't human.

It blinked. For his already overloaded mind, comprehension was slow in coming. Like the shutter on a camera, contraptions like windshield wipers flashed across its eyes, bringing to light tiny gears and other moving parts inside that contracted and twisted like an iris. There wasn't much else to do but blink back.

A pitched whine filtered through the air, rapidly attracting their attention away from their unexpected meeting. Initially, Trent presumed it was a result of the monster moving around, but some consideration had him rethinking that theory. It hadn't been doing that a moment prior and the sound echoed off the surrounding buildings to carry down. That noise reminded him a lot of a bridge starting to fall over…or a parking garage about to collapse because the steel beams are bending due to the strain of supporting weight that was no longer evenly distributed.

By the pitching and swaying the structure was doing, his second guess was right. In a way, it reminded him of the hula.

Alarmed, the robot twisted to be able to behold the sight, the swift decision to flee enacted as it chose at that very moment to nab Trent around the middle and make a mad scramble out of there. His stomach roiled and threatened to spill its contents at being forced to watch land move away so abruptly and from having his weight redistributed to his feet; not that he was about to tell the tin can that he was going cross-eyed and close to blowing chunks in fear of being dropped. From this height, his body wouldn't thank either of them for such treatment.

To his knowledge, the robot was scaling the wall, its sharp fingers digging into the brick as its legs propelled them upwards. Conceivably, it could have ran for the alley where Trent had come in if it weren't for the fact that path was on the opposite side of their current location and there was no time to spare for a marathon of that magnitude.

Halfway to the roof, the structure made a dramatic change for the worst by swaying straight in their direction. The machine lingered long enough to glance over its shoulder calculatingly, clutching him protectively close, and then it let go of its perch, pushing away from the wall to leap towards – what Trent was convinced was – their inevitable demise. With its free hand it took hold of a beam sticking out of the crumbling building and achieved enough momentum to swing them over to second protruding object, and then a final pivot brought them to the top.

Maintaining its descent, the garage forced the robot to continue making a run for it. They were dead even, each step the alien took was one big roll for the building. When it hit the club and broke up into pieces, at the last second the robot somersaulted into the air, rolled across the roof of a nearby building and landed in a crouch.

Despite witnessing that spectacular scene up close and personal, Trent could not comprehend that it had happened.

Not stopping there, but at a far less desperate pace, it crossed to the end of the building with the intent of getting to the steady streets below. In the distance, he could ascertain some crashing and screaming back from where they'd come, and smoke was starting to billow overhead. A fire must have started somewhere.

Such observations blended into the background or were stuffed aside in his subconscious in face of the pressing matter of being handled by the creation that continued to lug him around. Surprisingly gentle for a machine comprised of stiff, metal parts, it laid him out on the sidewalk, the mindful claws still nicking his clothes. He hacked and coughed, already sensing the added bruises to his body that would be showing up come tomorrow - _if _he survived to see tomorrow.

"N'ayez pas peur, je ne vous ferez pas mal." (1)

Was it his imagination, or was it talking to him? Babble akin to words was coming from it, though it was difficult to tell. Its voice was kind of high pitched and electric, like those droning voices that a computer could be programmed to spit out, precise and limited. There wasn't a single bit of it he recognized. His grasp of the English language was measured and in high school he'd taken two years of Spanish, during which he had earned a D in both cases.

"Tout ira bien, petit terrien. Reposez-vous." (2)

Yeah, okay, blah, blah, blaaaah…he opened his mouth to inform it that he didn't understand a thing that was coming out of its…God, he didn't know what. Speakers? Mouth? Regardless of where it was coming from, he hadn't a clue what it wanted to do or what it was telling him. Turned out he wasn't any easier to comprehend, blood gushing past his lips as he tried to talk and garbling his own speech.

Sirens could be picked up joining the entire ruckus continuing on in the city, fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars finally making it to the scene. Catching on to the arrival of their approaching company, the monster moved out of the field of his vision. There came a white flash, his eyes wincing closed at the strain and refusing to re-open, and the rev of a six-hundred-eighty horsepower engine drowning out the rest of the world.

And after that, he wasn't awake to hear anything else.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Translations**: (1) "Do not fear, I shall not harm you." (2) "Everything will be all right, little Earth creature. Rest now."

**Credits**: Thanks to Jyuu for inspiring and humoring me on this project, as well as being my personal Tracks judge. To my dedicated, long time beta reader of six plus years, Cassandra Cassidy, for tolerating my springing this monster on her and taking the time out of her busy schedule to go over every word and characterization of movie verse aspects. Big, huge, mega props to Nri for doing English to French translations for this.


	2. Please

The Proper Etiquette

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Mentions of Trent/Mikaela, Sam/Mikaela  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Adventure/AU  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, violence, spoilerish for the 2007 movie  
**Status**: Continuation, 2/?  
**Summary**: (2007 Movie Verse) What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.

**Notes**: For the record, Tracks is a Chevrolet Corvette C6 ZR1. Jyuu was originally the one who picked the vehicle, and after doing my own research, I came to the same decision to use the model as his alternate mode. Not only was the show car a very distinct shade of blue (as in, also blue like his Generation 1 color scheme, minus the flames, and the nickname 'Blue Devil' only further worked in its favor), but it's also the perfect size for what I was aiming for.

There turned up some irony as well because when I found a picture of it on the wiki page, the Camaro that they used for movie Bumblebee is sitting in the background. Don't believe me? You can find the links to them on my profile. :) I took this as a good sign and ran with it.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter Two –

**Health Hospital, New York City, New York**

Drip.

Trent had been hearing that incessant watery sound for quite awhile now. In the beginning, it wasn't so annoying because he wasn't coherent at the time and not in the condition to care after that. Its existence was acknowledged and then promptly ignored; rest, pain, and hunger were more prominent than some odd background nuisance.

Drip.

First, his sleeping problem was taken care of. Trent's attempts were off and on, his body insisting on replenishing his energy and building his strength. Rarely did it fail him, so when it _did_, that was a sign that he was in serious trouble. It was best to get that taken care of and fast, enabling him to deal with whatever else may have been ailing him.

Drip.

But the pain he was experiencing would periodically wake him, a blatant reminder that he had some bigger issues than just the lack of beauty sleep. Occasionally, it would flare up, startling him to awareness, then fade away, allowing him more time to get back to catching some z's. Thus, all he could remember from that time – if one could even call those hazy thoughts and flashes memories – was darkness and hot spikes.

Drip.

Eventually, it got to the point where sleep no longer came, his body weak but incapable of going into slumber. The pain he was feeling became less and less, rearing its ugly head when he shifted too often or put too much pressure on a certain part of himself. Thus, that left him hungry and going crazy because of it. Not having a choice in being able to ignore the sound of water splashing might have also had something to do with it.

Drip.

Cracking open his eyes to mere slits, he regretted such action instantly. He winced, the stark whiteness of the room blinding his frayed senses. With a groan, he rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand, the movement stiff and somewhat hindered. Groggily, he let his arm fall and he glanced at the limb. A thin, clear tube was sticking out of it, attached to an IV machine-

Afraid, his eyes visibly widened to examine the room with a critical awareness that had not been present earlier. Recollection was slow in returning, images of collapsing buildings and bright blue eyes coming back to haunt him. This wasn't the street he recalled being dumped on, however, nor was it nighttime. Past partially-closed curtains he could make out the rays of the sun. So then, what had happened in the time that he was unconscious and where was he now?

The football player didn't have to wonder for long. An African American woman dressed in scrubs marched through the door with a cart. She looked up from her task, beaded braids jingling against one another in her ponytail as mild surprise crossed her face at seeing him awake.

"Good afternoon!" she greeted once she had recovered from her shock. "Glad to see you've returned to the land of the living."

When he didn't laugh or otherwise react in a manner she thought appropriate, she set the cart aside and approached his side to begin examining his condition.

"That's a joke, son. You're supposed to laugh. Can you recall who you are and where you're from?"

"Trent DeMarco, from Tranquility, Nevada," he stated slowly, both finding the task mildly difficult and attempting to convince himself he hadn't gone crazy. For some reason his jaw felt swollen and sore, and breathing was more difficult than usual.

Without her prompting, he started announcing that he had a mother and a father, along with their full names. His birthday and his blood type spilled out of his mouth, too. The woman, who introduced herself as Rose, nodded at everything, confirming that what he said checked out – that he was alive and totally human. Oh, and not going insane.

When he was finished revealing his general self, he asked, "Where-"

"At Health Hospital."

"And-"

"You've been in our care for almost a day and a half. Currently, it's about 2 P.M."

"Why-"

"Don't worry; you only have a couple of bruised ribs, which is why you're short of breath. You were also administered with a dislocated jaw that we had to fix, along with various lacerations and other minor injuries. We have you on some pain medication, but I'm sure you already figured that out, eh, sweetie?"

Shutting his mouth, he decided that talking wasn't necessary. The nurse obviously knew what she was doing and had figured everything out herself. That, or she could read minds, which he wouldn't put past her. _Tell me, what am I thinking right now? I'd like to know, myself._

"The doctor should be with you shortly. In the mean time, how about I treat you to some Jell-O?"

Not waiting for a response, she picked a container off the cart and took his hand, placing the object in his palm and wrapping his fingers around it. Setting it back in his lap, she instructed him to remain calm and relax in his bed until someone came in to see him, and if he needed anything, he just had to press some button to get in contact with anyone on staff. With that, she walked back out, toting that cart of hers along to lead the way.

Shaking his head once, he glanced down at the plastic cup he held, a tiny spoon attached to the top. Tearing it off, the lid came up a tad with it, revealing – if the color was anything to go by – blueberry flavored Jell-O. In this light, it almost looked neon, glowing blue and-

_That bitch _Trent groused, letting the food fall from his hand to roll to the side of his cot. His bothersome appetite was no longer present.

* * *

Far too many hours later, Trent was able to leave under his own willpower. After being examined thoroughly one last time by the doctor on staff (who he now fondly referred to as Doctor Feel Good, though she hadn't been as affectionate about it), having his chest wrapped like a mummy, and being given a bottle of medication, some last minute information, and a pile of paperwork, he was at last permitted to see the light of day again.

Granted, it was getting late; the sun's rays dipped down far enough to touch the edges of the many skyscrapers surrounding the place. His recently-returned watch read ten in the evening, leaving him few options for what to do, and the minimal amount of cash left on his person limited him even more. The pain-relief medicine they had him on dealt with what soreness remained, but extended walking was out of the question. After getting some directions from the information desk and discovering where his hotel was positioned, there was no way he could push himself that far. There was a car rental place close by, but by now it was closed. That left only a taxi, hopefully one with a credit card reader.

Resisting the urge to sigh darkly, he scanned the streets. Of course there weren't any taxis in sight – there never seemed to be when they were needed. Forced to wait, he idly examined his clothes, which had been treated by the hospital to the best of their ability. It was obvious someone of his position could never wear them again. The colors were ruined beyond all recognition, stained by their earlier treatment and even torn, and such delicate material had not been dry-cleaned. His once-favoriteshirt, the one that he could swear was _made _for him, would never be the same again.

There abruptly came the sound of an engine, and Trent's head shot up in hopes of spotting a familiar yellow vehicle. What appeared was no taxicab; he raised his eyebrows curiously as a blue sports car glided to a stop nearby.

Despite popular belief, he wasn't a car person. Sure, he loved his truck – the one he had lost in a tragic accident; how was he going to explain that one to Dad? He already knew he had a long discussion pending in the future with him explaining the huge hospital bill that would be showing up soon – but that was because it was a symbol of power and standing.

The extent of his knowledge pertained strictly to what accessories were available to his type of transportation and nothing else. In fact, if push came to shove, he wouldn't have known where to begin fixing his own truck if something went wrong with it. That was someone else's responsibility; people like him didn't have to get their hands dirty when it was possible to just pay someone else to do it for them.

The jock was still a guy, though, and while he might not have understood the difference between a sparkplug and a crankshaft, he still knew a fancy, expensive set of wheels when he saw one. The windows were tinted jet black, making it impossible for him to see who the driver was, but that didn't matter. Whoever it was had to have the big bucks if they could afford the insurance on a speedster such as that. Trent admired it from a distance, and it turned out that it worked to his benefit to do so, because right behind it his savior appeared – taxi number 7K20.

Raising his arm as high as it could go, he waved the driver over. As the saying went, it was there faster than a New York minute.

"Sir, oh, sir; wait!"

Shoes on pavement sounded behind him and since he was alone, the person could only be addressing him. He turned around, and a blonde in pink scrubs skidded to a stop a scant few feet away from him, holding out a cell phone. It had a large scratch on the front of it, the line of silver marring the once perfectly navy surface.

"You almost forgot this back inside," the newcomer pointed out, letting him take it.

He thanked her as he flipped it open, and as expected, he noticed that the screen was dark, either from his battery running out or someone turning it off. Knowing his luck, the thing had died in his absence.

In that time, an old woman in a wheelchair and an entourage of who he assumed were her family members had appeared through the large sliding glass doors. Trent turned back around, planning on stepping inside the taxi before they got to it, except that he ended up stubbing his toe on a tire instead. Grunting as he ran into a solid object, he caught himself on his hands as he fell slightly forward, his vision filled with shiny blue metal.

Stepping back as if burned, he frantically looked down the street and then straight ahead, repeating this course of action two more times. Just a moment prior he could have sworn that the car hadn't been right there in his path, that it had turned the corner and pulled right over to the curb… The driver must have pulled forward without him noticing, the notion eliciting a glare from Trent that he directed at them through the glass.

He had no choice but to allow the elderly person and those with her to take the taxi, having lost his chance while running into the sports vehicle. That, and he would need to wrestle for it, the frail woman threateningly clutching her purse like a deadly weapon. Grandma had won this round. Trent made a show of motioning with his arm for her to take this ride, her associates piling inside with her and driving away to places unknown.

Returned to square one, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and decided to start walking regardless. He might not be able to get very far, but if he could make it to a busier street then maybe he could find another cab that could carry him back to his place. New York was known for its buses and subways, too, and if he ran into such things along the way, they would work just as well.

Without warning, there came an echo of a car engine revving somewhere behind him.

To his knowledge, the road had remained empty, so he felt little shame in ceasing in his travels to glance around in paranoia. The sun was only just setting, hues of dark red and orange hinting at approaching stars. All too soon it would be dark out, and this was no time for him to be wandering around alone, heightening his instincts and uncertainty. Indeed, there was no one else around. Trent was all alone in this city he was visiting, save for that one, lone sports car.

It took him five seconds to determine that no matter how much it hurt, he was going to run to that alley up ahead and walk around to the other side. Surely it led to the opposite area of the hospital, where he could get a hold of a pay phone or security guard. The jock might have his macho pride, but at heart even he could admit he was a yellow-bellied chicken. In his head, that plan seemed solid enough, even genius, but all rationality left him as two bright headlights focused on his form, blinding him and forcing him to raise his arm to shield his eyes. The beams became more intense as the source drew closer. That was as good a cue as any.

Gently, but firmly, placing his arm across his chest to secure his ribs, he partially jogged the last distance to the passageway, taking the corner sharply and catching over a couple boxes that nearly tripped him into an empty trashcan. The adrenalin that rushed through his veins gave him that extra boost he needed to keep going, although it wouldn't take a scientist to figure out that he was going to be regretting all this action later. Never mind the fact that his bruised ribs were regretting it _right now._

Stuck between numerous brick walls that towered over him by several stories, there was no real way for him to find his way. It was like a maze, one which he explored with no real sense at all. He took corners at random until he was traveling through narrow, forgotten back ways riddled with potholes and choppy cement. At the first sight of street lamps, he eagerly followed them to a way out, his breathing labored.

None of it looked familiar; no street names stuck out to him, no hospital in sight, and no stores appearing recognizable. This part of town felt oddly secluded from the rest of the city, with scarcely a street lamp to indicate the presence of a shop, nor any cars parked to demonstrate life, _period. _Compared to what he had grown accustomed to upon his initial visit, it was difficult for him to believe such a place existed. There should have at least been people milling around to take advantage of the night life NYC was so renowned for.

He did, however, spot a pay phone across the street. Eager to take advantage of this small bit of fortune, he achingly jogged over to it. At this point, he didn't care who he could contact; he'd dial 911 if it meant getting out of this hellhole, getting fined or jailed or _whatever _a small concern to him considering the alternative. When he tugged the phone free, however, it came flying off at his touch, the cord attaching the piece to the device having been cut or torn free. Audibly cursing fate, he didn't bother to place it back on the cradle, instead tossing it angrily on the ground, the sound of plastic cracking accompanying his foul language.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked no one in particular, glaring up and down the expanse of the neighborhood with distaste. He was officially lost and on his own, with no forms of communication or transportation.

As if in answer, the squeal of tires peeling out had him concentrating on the right side of the road, an unforgettable blue vehicle taking the corner at what had to be well beyond 40 mph, smoke billowing out from under it as rubber and cement made heated contact. Dumbfounded at this turn of events, Trent openly gawked as it came careening in his direction. By the time his 'fight or flight' instinct kicked back in, the sports car was nearly on top of him, and the jock dove down the nearest niche with the car hot on his heels and his ribs protesting the entire way.

His bad fortune continuing, it turned out that the one alley that he had chosen was a dead end.

Backing up against the rear wall, he desperately looked around for any metal fire escapes, odd protrusions from the wall, a doorway…_anything _that would allow him to run away. When not even a rope magically popped up anywhere, he knew he was cornered, as was soon indicated by two bright headlights piercing the darkness and concentrating on him like before.

"Look, buddy," Trent said, trying to be heard over the sounds of the engine, "I don't know what you want or how you found me, but I can tell you right now I don't have any money."

In response, the car closed in on him and blocked off his only exit. It crept until there was about five feet between the two of them, and then the passenger side door popped open invitingly, a foreign voice inquiring something he didn't understand.

"Whatever it is you want, my answer is no."

A couple more inches were lost, the voice sounding more demanding this time.

Trent's tone was more frustrated now. "I said _no._ What part of that don't you get? I've seen those cop shows about hitchhiking and psycho axe murderers, so there is no way I'm going with you to end up someone's bitch or dead in a ditch somewhere!"

There came a pregnant pause, the meaning of which was lost on the jock, and then the car's engine came to life like never before, the vibrations practically rattling Trent's teeth loose. His wounded chest didn't appreciate the gesture, either, and his ears were barely able to register that someone was talking to him again. This time, it was in plain old English, the words blatantly indignant and haughty.

"I _beg _your _pardon?_"

This time, Trent didn't even deign to comment, perhaps in a slight state of shock.

"Why would I have gone through the trouble of _saving you _if I was going to harm you? Really, now; have some common sense."

That single statement, instead of answering anything he may have been wondering, raised a good twenty questions more, his stalker's sudden ability to speak coherently and what in the world they were referring to being the most prominent out of them all. He didn't even know where to begin.

Eloquently, he finally asked in return, "What?"

The headlights dimmed and the door swung slightly as the car crept closer still.

"It would be my pleasure to address any concerns you may have, provided you enter the vehicle."

"Why should I? How do I know you won't shoot me in the head or drop me off a pier somewhere?"

"My dear boy," the voice drawled, sounding sincerely disgusted by his suggestion, "I may not be familiar with how matters are run here, but I can assure you, I have no interest whatsoever in disposing of you. Now, please, step inside."

There came a long, drawn-out moment during which Trent thought about his options. The first, being influenced by his more daring side, contemplated running on top of the hood, rolling over the roof and down the other side to escape. His ribs gave a physical protest at the thought, a sharp pang of hurt that pulsed through him, and promptly dispelled the idea. If he was in mint condition he might have been stupid enough to see about trying it – it always worked in the movies, right? – but as of right this second, trying anything too physical would do him more harm than good.

The jock was no Spiderman, either, so climbing out of there remained out of the realm of possibility, and even if there was someone close enough to help him, he wasn't going to start screaming like some girl. He had more dignity than that, mostly because there _was _no one out there who could hear him.

That only left getting inside the car.

But he _didn't _want to get inside the car.

"Do I have to?" he brazenly asked, sounding remarkably _nothing _like a five-year-old kid asked to eat his vegetables because he was too mature to pull off whining anymore, except that he totally wasn't, but he was in a fair amount of denial about it.

"I would have suggested something otherwise if that were the case," the stranger pointed out. "Could I trust you to walk alongside and not run away?"

There was too long of a drawn-out pause to his answer, rendering it too blatant of a lie for the other to believe him should he have come up with a good enough one. So carefully, Trent made his way around to the passenger side, dragging his feet with a lack of speed intended to delay the inevitable. The door was still open and welcoming when he got to it, with the interior too dark inside for him to see who was behind the wheel. There was no flash of metal belonging to a gun or knife anywhere in sight, though, so he wasn't panicking just yet.

Well, panicking more than he already _had_.

Grabbing hold of the roof's edge, he glanced to the entrance and measured his chances, but concluded that he would be backed over ten times before he made it there. Just his damn luck, he reasoned, and slid slowly inside.

The first thing he noticed about the interior was that it was colder than Alaska. The AC wasn't on or anything, but nonetheless, he shivered and goose bumps immediately danced across his skin, causing him to instinctively curl his limbs together in an attempt to conserve heat. It boggled the mind – it was summer in New York, the seats were all leather, and the windows were blacker than tar, yet he might as well have just stepped into a freezer.

Next, he feigned casual by turning towards the driver's seat to see who he was dealing with. He had expected numerous possibilities as far as what his assailant might look like – a burly and hairy man in a black suit, a drug dealer, the Godfather. What he got instead was thin air.

He gasped and choked on it as it got stuck in his throat, ready to bolt, when the door closed all on its own and locked.

So, logically, he did the next best thing: he threw a fit.

"The _hell _is the meaning of this?" he yelled. "I'm sore, and _pissed_, and my phone is dead, and now it turns out I've been chased by some fucking _ghost car!_"

His adrenalin reared its ugly head once more, brushing aside his fear of the implications of a machine that was running without an operator, and this space felt altogether too small and dangerous. Trent worked on the handle first, tugging on it with both hands, before trying to force the locks. When nothing gave, he punched the window. Immediately, he regretted the stunt, his knuckles now a total mess; he cried out again, this time in pain, and clutched his hurt hand to his mouth.

"I am unsure what you had hoped to accomplish by doing that, but let it be a lesson to you that attempting such a feat twice will produce the same results," a disembodied voice pointed out and all but caused Trent to have a heart attack. "I have done nothing to alarm you, so _please,_ do try to remain calm."

Around his throbbing fingers, he snapped, "Done nothing to 'alarm' me? Are you shitting me? You're a…I don't even know what the fuck you are! Hell, I could be dreaming all this right now, maybe I'm still stuck in the hospital hopped up on so many drugs you're just some figment of my imagination."

The pain he was feeling in his hand begged to differ, but Trent wasn't paying close attention to that little fact. His ribs could shut up, too.

There was another extended pause, then, "Can you…repeat that? I'm afraid I didn't catch it all."

He released his fingers with a wet pop, asking, "What are you? Are you some remote-controlled car with some creep using a radio on the other end? I bet you're a Russian spy, or maybe part of the mafia."

"I am none of those things, Mr. DeMarco," the voice said, the gearstick moving into reverse and pulling them back out onto the street. Trent tensed, watching wide-eyed through the entire process, and gripped what he could as if they were about to hit 90 miles per hour when all they seemed to get up to was about 20.

"How do you know my name? Where are you taking me?"

"I understand that you have a lot of questions, and I will answer them as promised, but allow me to do so at a fair pace," the other reprimanded. "What I am doing now is risky enough as it is, so you must understand certain matters first before we proceed."

In the meantime, the car ran a stop sign and turned onto a new road.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning, correct?"

"That would be awesome," Trent replied, deadpan. If whoever he was speaking to caught the sarcasm, however, the inflection didn't appear anywhere in their voice.

"My designation in the original dialect of my people is far too complex for your kind to pronounce, much less understand, but the rough translation would be the equivalent of 'Tracks.' That is what you may call me, if you wish."

"Tracks? Is that some kind of code name, like 007?"

"It is…more like the minimalistic definition of my purpose. A more accurate title would be 'tracker,' but only in your language, for it does not adequately state my true description. Though I am skilled in the field of discovering the location of things, I am better suited to endeavors that you have no words to describe. I went with what was closest, and shortened it for convenience."

At a yellow light, the vehicle didn't even hesitate or slow down, the light itself turning a blaring red as the car ran that, too.

"Alright, _Tracks_. Thanks for the introduction, but that doesn't answer any of my questions."

"I am an autonomous robotic organism from a distant planet called Cybertron. Due to time constraints at this moment, I cannot go into any detail beyond that. All you need to know is that two nights ago, I crash landed on your world, in pursuit of a homing signal from my allies. Before coming here, I had been severely damaged, so I was unable to enter your atmosphere correctly. My trajectory was off, throwing me kilometers from my intended target."

Trent had gone pale, having stopped listening around the time he heard 'automatic' or 'atomic' or whatever it was the car had said. Fact of the matter was, he was more lost and confused than he had been to begin with, and now a sick sort of dread was overtaking him, the pit of his stomach falling away and a sweat breaking out all over his frozen skin.

"S-so…so what? Are you telling me that you're…a robot? An _alien _robot?" he croaked.

"Essentially, yes."

Okay, so now he was lost, confused, _and _scared.

Wheezing slightly, he bent over at the waist until his head was tucked as near to his knees as possible, his hands gripping them tightly as he tried to keep from hyperventilating or blowing chunks all over the interior of a thinking machine.

That last thought made him dizzy all over again, so he concentrated on evening out his breathing. It was a trick he'd learned back during sixth grade, when he'd first tried out for football. He'd get so nervous he would literally get nauseous, so his coach had shown him a calming method. As time had gone on and he'd gotten better at the game, he hadn't had to resort to using it anymore, but at the moment he was reverting back to it as if his life depended on it.

Who knew; maybe it did.

"Then that…that means you're one of _those _things! The ones that…on the news, that attacked the city, and…two nights ago? Two nights ago when…oh god. _Oh god_," he gulped. "_You _were the thing that came out of that smoking crater!"

_Breathe_, he commanded, _breathe, damn it._

"That would be correct. I had lost control of my entry and accidentally made first contact with you," the voice stated, Trent recognizing the sound as so _blatantly _mechanical it made his stomach roil, and then murmured, "I must apologize. It was never my intent to harm or bring you into any of this."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. Recovery was his number one priority, freaking out second, and then forgiving the space alien could come last.

"My ability to communicate was limited before, restricted to receiving, but now a connection to even the most basic of lines is impossible. All I have on humans and the situation my kind are in is limited to what I downloaded prior to my arrival. The options left to me are observation, and that can only get me so far."

They stopped moving. It took Trent a moment to realize this, his vision having been swimming up until that point and making it difficult to identify that it was only _him_. Gradually, he lifted his head and took in his new surroundings. When it sunk in where they were, he sat all the way back, looking at the glass sliding doors of his hotel.

"How did you know this is where I was staying?" he demanded nervously.

"The temporary address was posted on a notice in the medical room you were assigned to, along with your name and home location."

Trent shook his head. "Why were you _there _looking at my information? I know I'm an irresistible guy, but what could you want with me?"

The engine shut off, releasing a couple of soft ticking sounds as it eased down. People strolled around them, jaywalkers crossing behind and in front while everyone else passed along the sidewalk, never knowing what was transpiring right under their noses. The sounds of their footsteps and conversations were soft background noise that was acknowledged, but didn't disturb the eerie quiet that descended upon the occupant of one blue corvette.

Then, softly, "Once again, I apologize. Truly, I regret what I am about to ask of you."

He didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit.

"Already, I have revealed more to you than is safe, but to earn your trust I did as I had to. But until you agree, I cannot say anything more than this: I need a guide, one who can take me to Tranquility, Nevada."

Yeah, he definitely didn't like the sound of that.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Credits**: Thanks to Jyuu for always being an inspiration and Cassandra Cassidy for looking this chapter over!


	3. Excuse me

The Proper Etiquette

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Mentions of Trent/Mikaela, Sam/Mikaela  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Adventure/AU-ish  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, violence, spoilerish for the 2007 movie  
**Status**: Continuation, 3/?  
**Summary**: (2007 Movie Verse) What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.

**Notes**: I'd forgotten to mention this, but this story is also up on my fanfiction-only journal over at LJ, for those who may prefer that 'format' over this, and as a bonus, I figured out how to get it to show the translations for any foreign language used in the story to appear if you hover over it instead of needing to scroll to the end like readers will need to do if they're curious what is being said. Either way, I'm still going to continue updating both places (here and at my journal), but I thought it was worth mentioning. :)

Thanks everybody who has had some input in this, reviewed with compliments or is enjoying it in secret!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter Three –

**The Choice Hotel, New York City, New York**

Trent's room might as well have been on the top floor of the Empire State Building considering how long it was taking his elevator to reach said destination. Sporadically, he would glance at the counter above the punch keys, the display either fixated on the same number he'd last seen or adding up one in the moment he looked. It had decided not to be accommodating or understanding of the extreme gravity of his situation, and his growing impatience was evident in his inability to keep his foot from tapping and in the agitated sigh that escaped him.

His thoughts, on the other hand, were traveling about four times faster than the world around him. Upon his return to the relative safety of the hotel, his state of (semi-)disbelief had tagged along. As a college-bound student, an up-and-coming football star, and a regular chick magnet, this type of Twilight Zone deal shouldn't be happening to him. The jock should have been _immune _to it, simply _above _complications of this magnitude, an _exception_ to whatever rules out there dictated what happened to whom. Never mind that the living car nestled outside shouldn't exist.

When he'd first arrived in the city, he'd been ready and willing to be the main attraction of party central, but that was before he'd encountered a space-traveler, gotten a free ticket to the hospital, become kidnapped by aforementioned space-traveler, and, to top it all off, been solicited to escort his kidnapper to his hometown, where his friends and family reside.

This was not the grand way his vacation was supposed to end.

As soon as he'd made it inside the elevator, he was in an alternate emotional state. Denial was choking him like a vice, but now fury was the one tightening it. He'd roughly slammed his pointer finger on the appropriate buttons that would get him to his floor and startled a mother and her young daughter, who were also taking that particular ride up, by doing so.

How could this be happening to him out of all the billions of people on the planet? Sure, he wasn't a saint. In his younger career he'd stolen lunch money from kids smaller than him and delivered the occasional wedgie to some unsuspecting underclassmen. With his advanced genetics and skills, he was easily able to outweigh ninety-percent of his classmates by middle school and his old man by grade nine.

Unlike the majority of his friends, he only cheated on finals, and the rest he took the fall on. He knew the coach had his back, so bad grades weren't a concern. But whatever unfavorable acts he'd committed, at least he'd never killed anybody; he might get violent enough to strike out, but he wasn't some raping murderer. The only illegal activity he'd ever been caught doing was parking in a handicapped spot – _by accident _– and that had promptly been paid off and removed from his records. Nobody would have done a single thing differently were they in his shoes.

So it stood to reason that karma had the wrong victim. Someone, somewhere in the cosmos had made a _mistake_, and so help them when (not if, but _when_) he discovered whose bright idea it was to drop this unpleasant 'present' in his lap, he would be returning the favor. He'd broken noses over less grievous errors.

There came a sudden ding that caused Trent to jump a foot into the air and nearly out of his socks. After the fifteenth glance had turned up the same floor eight, he'd retreated into his thoughts, and indignation had made him high-strung and edgy, muscles tensed to the density of solid granite. The woman ushered her little girl past him and through the doors, putting as much distance between them as possible, seeing as she acted like he was a lunatic that was gearing to snap and go on some killing spree. The irony of that thought didn't strike him until the doors slid closed. The jock snorted once, and then turned it into a soft chuckle.

"Maybe I am a lunatic," he mumbled under his breath, twitchily placing a hand in a pocket while he kept the other secured against his chest for rib support.

Taking in as big a breath as his ribs permitted, he exhaled in the same way, remnants of tension easing from him in stages. He slumped against the rear wall and glanced at the ceiling, fluorescent lights blaring down right into his eyes and causing him to squint.

"Fuck."

That single word eloquently summed up his final thoughts. With no one around to bear witness, a big helping of uncertainty threatened to consume him; it was rather a foreign feeling. The answers to his problems were always in the form of multiple-choice or provided by his parents. No coaches were in sight, his mom and dad were back in Nevada, and his aunt's therapist couldn't prescribe this problem away no matter how many drugs she signed off for him. Not soon enough, at any rate.

If they, or someone else he knew, were standing next to him, who would believe him? Maybe those alien fanatics he'd spotted on television, or the government, but neither were a comforting thought at present.

When he'd stepped into the elevator, he'd been adamant against accepting what was happening, but as his ride ended and he got off on his floor, with its funky, green and purple carpet and tacky tables with equally-tacky vases that were stationed beside each suite, he'd somehow warmed up to the concept. He remained uncomfortable about the whole thing, but he wasn't about to cover his ears and go "la la la la" to make it past the ordeal, either.

His mind was thinking in terms of talking blue sports cars existing – and his unfortunate involvement with them – rather than wasting time fighting over the issue of whether he was hallucinating off of some LCD he was slipped at a night club or a large dose of morphine from the hospital. _Does morphine make people see things that don't exist? Doesn't matter; my luck can't afford to be that forgiving_ he thought dryly, dismissing the matter.

It was just hard for even his thick skull to block out what had transpired, whether he liked it or not, and now he had two choices: adapt or not adapt. He'd seen enough nature films in biology to know what happened to critters that weren't the fittest, and if there was one thing in this world he was not, it was a loser.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, he leaned against his door and slid his card through the reader, wishing he could afford a nap. The hospital bed hadn't done his back any justice and using his brain this much in such a short span of time had him feeling mentally burned out. He had promised E.T. downstairs that he would be prepared to leave with all of his belongings and maps first and foremost, which didn't include a break anywhere in there. Stifling a yawn, he took it easy in getting inside at least, in no hurry to turn back around and head out.

Trent noticed two major changes that had occurred in his absence. One was that the room was a complete wreck. The contents of his suitcases had been unloaded all over the place; there were clothes on the bed, floor, and chairs, and a pair of boxer shorts had ended up on a lamp. His laptop was booted up and situated on the desk, despite his memory supplying that it had been left packed in its carrying case and hidden by the bulk of the desk when he'd left.

Secondly, the perpetrators that had broken in and orchestrated this raid were _still there_. There were two of them, both identically dressed in black designer suits and sunglasses, despite it being well after dark. They had stopped their search as soon as he'd taken his first steps inside.

Trent impulsively wanted to make a move. He did the first thing that came to mind, and that was locating his assorted pamphlets and printouts of his travels. Thankfully, though they had been touched, they were still strewn about in the general area of the sink. His eyes flickered to the pile and then back to the men, one catching him doing it and reaching for, he assumed, a weapon in his jacket pocket.

"Don't even think about it."

So he didn't. Didn't think about it, at least. He rushed for what he'd returned for and managed to grab a handful of papers, sending the rest flying, and turned tail to run for his life for the second time in the past twenty-four hours. This was rapidly turning into a pattern he was growing to hate. _I should have joined track, not football. Damn those attractive cheerleaders._

The men gave chase. Trent slammed the door, intending to have it shut on their faces, and then he knocked over the ugly table just beyond it to try and slow them down. The elevator was closer than the stairs, and knowing he wasn't fit enough to take them, he dove into the box, hand smashing against the controls and activating multiple floors.

"Sir, you hold that door or we will-"

The elevator doors cut the other man off and he began his descent. It didn't continue for very long, breaking about three floors down and then two more after that because he refused to leave that close to where he had run away from. Cautiously ducking his head out, there were no sounds of thundering feet or yelling, a sign he took as a good one. He considered his options as he stepped out, and as soon as he did, there came a clamor from the area of the stairs that sent him turning on his heel and trying to get back on the elevator – but this time it was his turn to get it in the face.

Grimacing, he hopped into another elevator going down and collided with someone. Turning in a panic and fully expecting an army of Men In Black to be there, whipping out Noisy Crickets or shiny memory-erasers, the reality of the situation wasn't as exciting as all that: he came face-to-face with a pair of regularly-dressed gentlemen. There was a guy wearing khakis and holding a martini, for Pete's sake, and he was raising an eyebrow at him while the other guy was busy straightening his wrinkled attire, thanks to the jock running into him.

"What's your hurry?" the one holding the drink inquired.

He scrambled for an alibi and blurted out the first thing that came to the forefront of his mind.

"Ex-girlfriend. She wanted her…uh…thong back."

Both strangers looked curiously at him, and the man he'd run into paused in his tidying to give him a serious once-over on top of that.

"From the looks of it, that's not all she wanted. Ex, indeed."

"Women; what can you say?" he chuckled breathlessly, ribs reacting poorly.

"I'll drink to that," the man in khakis said, and finished his beverage.

When next the doors opened, he thought they would have made it to the first floor. Instead, the numbers on the indicator pad read fourth level, leading him not to risk another escape attempt in the hallway. A group of people piled in and forced him back; it appeared to be a family gathering and no one that would threaten him at gunpoint. Trent shifted from foot-to-foot, glancing over heads to see how much further till he reached the bottom floor. According to the screen, it wouldn't be fast enough for his liking. He added elevators to the budding list of things he hated and discretely, to pass the time, folded and tucked away the directions he'd nabbed in a pants pocket.

Having a large crowd turned out to be a great advantage. Though a couple went their separate ways when they got off, those who got on after him were leaving jointly. Trent stuck as close as he was able, using them as cover because he noticed a few suspicious guys huddled together by the garage exit; no doubt they were in cahoots with the men that had ransacked his suite.

One of the three was scanning the foyer and did a double-take, spotting him before he could duck. The group ran for him, followed shortly by the ones from his room as they flew out from the stairs _and _still more who leapt out of an elevator. The count was up to seven against one. The jock might not have been a mathematician, but he knew bad odds when confronted with them.

Shoving aside the massive number of well-dressed family members and ignoring their shouts, he progressed into the circular revolving doors, but was not able to escape capture altogether. His shirttail was caught and tugged on, causing him to grunt and momentarily stall halfway through exiting the building. That was when he put all those years as lead quarterback, four years running, to practical use and plowed onward, physically dragging whoever had hold of him.

Ignoring the painful protests of his body to the best of his ability, he pushed his shoulder into the glass panel blocking his access to the world beyond. Trent made the mistake of frantically looking towards the way he'd come – catching sight of two fraternal twins (one a boy, the other a girl) smooshed up against the glass; a thin, dark-haired guy (who happened to be the perpetrator clinging to his clothes and struck him as familiar); and a huge crowd behind them – and almost lost his footing because of it. There were a lot of people shoving and pulling, shouting indignantly or complaining as loudly as they could in an attempt to be heard over the din of others trying to do the same exact thing, succeeding in making the whole ordeal uglier.

Trent kept his side flush with the door, the toes of his shoes digging into the marble flooring. Sticking in place had to be better than giving in. Unfortunately, his chaser wasn't giving up either, his fingers clutching to the 180-thread count fabric with no intention of seeing him go free. He tried grabbing it too and started a game of tug-of-war. In the end, it wasn't up to either one of them how this was going to end; it was decided by the least-likely of sources.

The little girl-twin stuck in the portion one back was crying and, because a kid can only be expected to take so much abuse at a time, let loose an earth-shattering wail that was more akin to a war cry and resolved to handle the problem herself. She sunk all of her surprisingly-sharp teeth into the closest pound of flesh and vied to rip it asunder. She happened to bite the arm that was attached to the hand keeping a firm grip on Trent. A surprised, high-pitched yelp was heard as Trent's shirt was released, permitting him to force his way out. There was enough room for the jock to squeeze through when he sucked in his gut and thought small thoughts.

Without wasting another moment, he scrambled towards the last spot he remembered the mysterious sports car being located, and when it came into his sights he spared half a second to thank his lucky stars that it was still where he'd been dropped off.

"Open the door!" he shouted, arms flailing and startling patrons that weren't already gawking at the spectacle outside the hotel. When he was in leaping distance, his feet propelled him forward with the intention of sliding inside the vehicle. This failed because, instead of obeying his command, the door remained fixed and he ended up running into it head first, body rebounding and landing straight on its ass. Belatedly, he wondered if he'd run for the wrong car, until:

"Mon dieu! (1) That's absolutely no way to ask for a favor," an electronic voice exclaimed, oblivious to the commotion happening close by.

Rubbing his sore forehead, Trent nervously glanced back the way he had come and spotted the man that had been chasing him lying on the ground and getting kicked alternately by the girl who'd bitten him and her male counterpart, while the entrance remained full. He could hear yelling from down the street and pounding footsteps, telling him that the reprieve Trent had received would not last for long. Groaning, he counted to ten before straining back to his feet and grabbing the handle.

"Open this motherfucking door this damn minute or else I'm going to rip out your piece-of-shit engine and auction it off on eBay! How's that for asking?" he tried threatening.

"On _my _planet, we have a polite adverb that is used when entreating our fellows. How uncouth. Aren't you aware of the phrase 's'il vous plait'?" (2) Tracks asked, then continued haughtily without waiting for a reply. "First you don't want to be near my proximity and now you're ordering me around like some personal chauffeur? You creatures are positively fickle! What is your hurry?"

A gunshot answered in Trent's stead. It was either a warning shot (this he hoped for) or the worst misfire in the history of letting off a gun, because it connected with the top of the doorframe and ricocheted right by Trent's ear, nearly giving him a premature piercing. Both of them cried out in alarm; Trent's was a bellow, while Tracks let out what could be referred to as a shocked squeal.

The door burst open without any more prompting and all but threw out Trent's arm out in the process. He straightened, not expecting the door to come back around and usher him inside by force, so no time was spared to get comfortable. They drove into heavy traffic, reaching sixty from zero in the span of a blink, cutting off taxis and tourists, not to mention running red lights, stop signs, and active crosswalks with terrifying accuracy.

Trent was thrown this way and that like a human-sized pinball as Tracks ignored every known and forgotten traffic law ever written. He'd started awkwardly stretched out across both seats, with his face planted by the pedals, and then went through the motions of being turned into a pretzel. When he'd grasped enough sense to straighten out, his entire body was smashed into the passenger side, one foot pressed up against the side window and his left ear getting jabbed by the gearshift.

"What in the blazes have you done to attract such attention?" the car demanded, taking a wild route that directed them to take the left turn lane to a right corner and burning rubber. "Why are we being pursued?"

He couldn't respond right away, his ribs stealing his breath away and causing him to gasp. His temper was not to be outdone, however, and allotted him a small amount of energy to snap, "Hell if I know. All I did was return to my room and there they were! I've never seen these guys in my- Agh!"

Trent paused, both hands making to grab hold of anything they could reach.

"Where did you learn to drive, huh? A crash derby? My grandmother knows how to drive better than this and she's seventy-five."

"Pardon me, but I have my doubts concerning whether or not she has been placed in a situation that would demand her to react as I must. The comparison is hardly adequate."

Night turned into day as helicopters with spotlights appeared overhead and aligned on top of them, momentarily blinding Trent as one shined into his eyes. Tracks swerved and ran over a bump after they were spotted – one that was big enough to toss them into air.

Continuing as soon as tires met ground, Trent was nearly jostled into the dashboard. He saved himself by throwing one arm around the top back portion of the seat for support. He arched his neck to let loose an extended string of retorts about Tracks' incapability to drive, but the words died in his throat when he realized what that previous jump had been: a curb.

"ARE YOU _INSANE_?"

They were driving on a busy sidewalk, moving past street signs and pedestrians at unsafe speeds. People dove to the sides, though a few of the unfortunate ones lost their handbags as they dinged into Tracks' sides and were flung into the air.

"Beg your pardon?"

Trent reiterated with, "You're crazy! The sidewalks are for people! _People!_"

"I am as conscious as the rest of you; I think I have as much right to be here! And besides, this method is sixty-two percent-"

"Keep the mumbo-jumbo crap to yourself, okay?" he pointedly cut him off, not interested in calculations when black SUVs were appearing in their side-view mirrors. "If you're trying to blend in and escape, this is _not _going to cut it."

"Oh, very well. I suppose you are the expert in this matter."

A seatbelt came to life, _literally_, and secured Trent in his seat just as he finished getting himself positioned correctly. It was a little too high on the criss-cross section and cut across his mouth, silencing any future protests. The reason for this became apparent as the car suddenly tilted so far onto its side that it balanced perfectly on two tires and cut down an alley. Behind them, the black cars that had tailed them came to a screeching halt, a couple not doing so fast enough and rear-ending the ones in the lead, forcing them to crunch into the brickwork of the buildings.

Tracks took the path to the end, where it widened up enough for him to settle back on all fours, and continued to make their getaway. Ten minutes were spent going in and out of unmarked streets, with five more on top of that used to find a new route, and another twenty to discover an exit that led them back to civilization.

With the other distracted with navigating, Trent wrestled with the seat belt, fingers grappling until they got a firm enough grip to yank it down. He gasped softly for air, the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears creating a ringing sound.

"Well, that was unexpected."

The blond was too breathless to bother with a response, but for once they were both in agreement.

* * *

**Outskirts of New York City, New York**

They were nearing the outer edges when Tracks stopped, pulling into an empty parking lot in front of a row of closed stores. Across the street was a club, its pink and purple neon lights almost blinding. Heavy bass music could be felt from their vantage point, the song's lyrics and tune weak enough in comparison that he couldn't make out either.

There were people milling around. A few resembled gang members with their caps and jerseys; misfits, bums, and club goers – women dressed in skimpy attire and men with slicked-back hair – their emergence sporadic and limited to groups of two or three. This was as private as it was going to get at two-thirty in the morning.

The car idled, trying to decide whether or not it was okay to remain, and then switched off. The interior went dark and quiet, save for the glow coming from the neon lights nearby. After that daring escape, Trent wasn't up to talking much, wanting to catch his breath. In all his days as a careless teenager, not once had he participated in something so…so _something_ that there wasn't a word to describe what he'd just been through.

He'd attended parties and gotten drunk past the point of common sense and rational thinking, gotten in a friend's jeep or his own Hummer and driven about town while doing stupid things to neighbor's houses or mailboxes. But going eighty-five on a highway in the middle of the night when there were maybe ten people on the road didn't compare to almost flattening over a hundred pedestrians, outrunning helicopters, and not cooperating with the law. If his mother ever got word that he had avoided arrest and been a part of tearing apart half of New York City, he could forget about being grounded because she'd kill him. Plain and simple.

"Did you get what you needed?"

Trent started, head darting around in confusion.

"Um, what?"

"The maps, I believe it was," Tracks tried speaking to him again, slowly. "You stated that you needed to go retrieve them to aid in our travels."

"Oh," he said lamely. "Yeah, yeah…I got them."

A quick check of the interior showed that they had fallen out of his pocket and been tossed about everywhere. A few were wrinkled and strewn across the driver's seat and a pair was by the pedals. He gathered them back up, un-crinkling a few over his knee to analyze them better.

He didn't like what he saw.

"Uh-oh."

"What is this 'uh-oh'?"

Trent licked his lips nervously, turning over a page front and back, and doing the same to the rest. He leaned back in his seat and checked under his feet, near the pedals again and sat up enough to glance under himself.

"I'm missing some important pages. There were a lot more than this; I remember because I marked up some for my trip back. I ran into construction in a couple states, there were great places to eat…" He trailed off and scowled at what he held in his hand. "I know I wasn't able to grab everything before I was being chased, but…"

Belatedly, he also recalled that his truck had housed a couple of extra maps, too, all of them charred to ashes when Tracks had made his landing two nights ago and totaled his vehicle and the garage housing it. The rest were in the custody of those guys that had been back at the hotel, meaning what he held in his hands were all that was available to him.

"Surely you can recollect where you've driven? What you managed to reacquire can serve as guidelines."

He winced.

"Ah, well…we humans aren't built like you guys are, you know? Our brains aren't flash drives or whatever that store shit forever. My memory isn't the best."

"Is it akin to faulty wiring? It sounds dreadful," Tracks said, and it was hard for Trent to decipher whether the other was sympathetic or making fun of him.

"If we can find a rest stop, they might have more maps I can grab. Or a gas station. Gas stations have people that can fill in the blanks on where to head. No clue where there's one nearby."

"In my experience, scoping out unknown territory to get one's bearings is crucial. Nevada is located in the west, correct? Then west is where we will head. Our odds of discovering those…alleged 'rest stops' or 'gas stations' will not improve if we sit here and rust."

"Humans don't rust, dude; we rot."

"Not in _my_ interior you don't! All the more reason to get a move on," Tracks scoffed, starting back up and doing as he'd promised – heading west.

Trent inclined his head towards the window and watched as the city passed them by in a blur, leaving the city without preamble. Immaturely, he felt the urge to give the fading view of the place the middle finger. He'd never been happier to be gone from a place than this.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Translations**: (1) "My god." (2) "If it pleases you."

**Credits**: Once again, thanks to Jyuu, who has inspired this, to my beta reader, Cassandra Cassidy, who continually keeps up with this story in all its lengthy glory, and to Nri, for offering me translations for French when I am in need of them.


	4. Table manners

The Proper Etiquette

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Mentions of Trent/Mikaela, Sam/Mikaela  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Adventure/AU  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, violence, spoilerish for the 2007 movie  
**Status**: Continuation, 4/?  
**Summary**: (2007 Movie Verse) What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.

**Notes**: From this point onward, I'm pretty much winging the directions. The places are intended as general positions and don't have to be taken literally time-wise, just an indicator that yes, the boys are still traveling along, and no, they don't really know where they're going, so it kind of works out in the end. For me, anyway. ;P

My apologies for taking so long to write this! I had started it immediately after the last chapter, but ended up not touching it again until about a week or two ago. Thank you to everyone who's sticking with this and being patient.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter Four –

**Near Brookville, Pennsylvania **

Trent leapt in his seat without knowing why and woke from a restless night of turning in place and sitting awkwardly for one hour too many. Squinting his eyes, the tinted windows kept most of the light at bay, but he could tell it was past noon. He groaned in discomfort and reached a hand up to gingerly rub at the base of his neck. The muscles were tender and a sense of pins and needles ran, from that starting point, clear down his spine to his numb bottom.

"Bonjour (1)," Tracks greeted him, a tad too loudly, and caused Trent to wince and curl up in his seat.

Clenching his eyes shut to rest them, he said, "Seriously, English. Quit with the crazy moon language."

"It is not 'crazy moon language,' whatever that may be. It's _French_, you silly boy," the car stated disbelievingly. "How can you not recognize one of Earth's own dialects?"

"I never took French. Too complicated; they don't know how to spell in that country. English and 'cuánto cuesta un burrito' (2) are all I _do_ know."

"That is absurd. How are communications carried out if you only understand one language, when I found a recorded 6,809?"

"Why do you _care?_ It's not like you're a native or anything; what's your attachment to French over the rest? Don't you care about your own?"

Quiet followed Trent's own line of questioning. Figuring that Tracks had lost interest in the conversation, he took that time to nestle back in the seat and sleep. He'd begun to doze on and off when the other's voice interrupted his progress.

"My kind has little use for prose. The art was lost when efforts had to be put into the war; we speak out of necessity, not enjoyment, like your people do. My affinity for the language stems from such lack of…_beauty_ and sophistication in my own. French in particular has a vocal quality to it that I find easy to grow fond of."

Clenching his jaw, Trent shifted again, this time in hopes of dispelling the awkwardness he felt at the resuming conversation. It had taken a turn he wasn't used to being a part of.

"If you say so," he mumbled after a long beat, feeling far less profound.

"You don't agree?"

"I'd never thought about it. I grew up on English, and since everyone speaks that where I live, I don't need to know x-number of words and phrases I can't even pronounce."

"This doesn't have to do with that faulty CPU business, does it?"

"I'm _not_ stupid," he snapped, glowering at the interior and sitting up in his seat, defensive.

"That's not-"

"I can learn any language I want, when I want. I just don't _feel_ like it."

A tense, drawn-out lapse in conversation took over. Trent was too insulted and irritated to provide further input, and Tracks was more than likely resolving to cease with questioning in consideration of his passenger. Nothing was added until Trent spotted a road sign posted along the shoulder detailing a rest stop.

"Get on that ramp over there," he directed, instinctively lifting a finger to indicate where he wanted the other to travel. Tracks must have been able to see anyway or was capable of picking up the motion because he wordlessly did as he was told.

Tracks pulled up right in front of the service area, the parking lot empty save for two semi-trucks parked on the far side and near the back, where a small park dotted what space hadn't been converted for the rest area. Trent got the hint, noticing that even if he decided to go George of the Jungle out there, he wouldn't get far because from this vantage point; all the entrances and exits could be spotted. Neither said anything on that exact subject, but it was clear that they remained wary of one another. He tried to leave, but the door was stuck, trapping him inside.

"Dude, I _get it._ I'm not going to make a break for it. I have to take a leak, get something to eat, and get us a map so we know where the hell we're going. I promise that's all, okay?"

"Do you have everything you need?" Tracks asked, and Trent got the feeling he was stalling.

"Sure I do. Not like I need anything to go the bathroom or- Oh," he paused, reversing his pockets until his wallet popped out. He rifled through it, desperately checking to see if money had miraculously jumped into any of the folds or gotten stuck behind his license, but no coins or dollar bills fell out.

"Well, I mean, I guess I do. I have my credit cards, but I don't think any of the vending machines will take those."

"Credit cards? As in…those plastic monetary advancement cards? You can't honestly believe it's safe to use those!"

"Why _not?_ I don't have any money on me besides these. I have to afford food somehow."

"They're electronically based, Mr. DeMarco – easy to track. No doubt those officials that were after us have already blocked access to your accounts or placed trackers that will notify them of activity."

Trent hadn't considered that outcome, his mind playing catch up and remembering how they had been chased not too long ago by men and women who were intent on a hostile takeover. People that well equipped would know what they were doing, and had no doubt done what Tracks had said. The government controlled _everything_, and if that group was associated with the government in any fashion – hell, even a group that wasn't a part of the government but owned SUVs and matching helicopters – then they probably knew every single fact about him, from the day he was born to today. His permanent record, his bank accounts, his shoe size; nothing would go unchecked.

To keep from freaking out about this, he instead cussed in a long string concerning his current predicament on sustenance. His medication, which was wearing off, required him to eat along with it, not to mention his stomach wouldn't stop growling now that he could see all the bags of chips and candy bars lined up near the sidewalk. It didn't stop there, though – he couldn't go to any fast food restaurants, grocery stores, _anywhere_, because if he did end up using his credit card, he'd find himself tackled from behind by more of those agent people.

"What am I supposed to do _now?_ I have to eat! If I don't eat, I'll die, and if I die, then we're both in a whole lot of fucking trouble."

"Don't panic just yet," Tracks said. "Those contraptions over there, they're housing provisions, correct?"

"Yeah, but I can't just break those things open. I'm strong, but I'm not-"

A loud, piercing _wail_ filled the air, startling Trent so badly he thought they were under attack. He yelled and ducked down in the seat, covering his head and hoping that he wasn't struck by whatever was making that awful sound. Glass shattered, and for a split second he thought it was Tracks' windows, but he didn't feel anything rain down on him. When the noise stopped and he at least _felt _intact, he lifted his head, shaking.

"W-what…what the _fuck_ was _that?_"

"I directed a sonic pulse at those machines. You may go receive your nourishment."

Jerkily, he looked around until he spotted the vending machines, their front windows broken to pieces. He looked around again, going so far as to turn his entire body around in his seat and looked over both his shoulders to make sure no one had seen that show. What few cars had also stopped had left just as they arrived, and the travel plaza was small and unmanned that day.

Thankfully, no one had shown up as Tracks decided to go banshee, meaning they were in the clear.

"Warn me the next time you do that!" he snapped, shoving the door open and stepping around to get the food, grumbling as he wrenched out as much as he could carry. He didn't know when the next time they could get away with this would be, and besides, he liked Lays potato chips. And Three Musketeers bars. Mountain Dew was another favorite. He returned and tossed his load into the passenger seat, and then went inside to get a map.

The jock tried to hurry, grabbing a handful of maps, making sure that one of them was of the entire United States. When he got back, he shoved all the food to the floor and sat back down, and Tracks took off as soon as he buckled up. Pulling out his medication, he popped the recommended pills, then munched on a bag of Chex Mix and chugged down a soda. While he waited for it to kick in, he pulled out one of the maps and his own notes, working on connecting the dots.

"What's the consensus?"

"Keep on this road for now. I have some reworking to do since we can't get on any turnpikes – those need money, and I don't think you can blast your way through them."

A considering pause.

"Well, you _could_, but I wouldn't recommend it, you know? Since you're the one all about 'keeping in disguise.'"

"The less attention we garner, the faster this trip will go, yes?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, the two of them lapsing into silence afterwards. Neither one of them wanted a repeat of the incident from earlier, that downward spiral of a conversation, nor was there anything further for them to discuss. Trent concentrated on the maps, and Tracks kept on driving, and together these two strangers made their way closer to home.

* * *

**Crossing the Ohio state line**

It was a couple hours later that Trent awoke, the incident unexpected since he hadn't intended to fall asleep, much less remembered starting to do so. At some point, maybe when all the action had finally caught up to him and was too much for him to handle or because of that 'may cause drowsiness' warning on the pain killer's label, he had apparently slumped over to the side and fallen asleep with his face plastered to the glass.

He hadn't drooled (much), but a bit subconsciously, he rubbed his sleeve against the window to clear away the condensation. The sun was still up, but it was closer to setting than it had been, meaning it was at least around dinner time. A glance at Tracks' clock said as much.

That glance at Tracks' clock also revealed a hand – a hand that wasn't Trent's own. This hand was attached to an arm, and this arm was attached to a shoulder, and this shoulder was attached to a body. A man's body. A man Trent didn't recognize.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his medication bottle, looking for any signs that would indicate it could also cause hallucinations. No such facts existed anywhere on the bottle. This was both good and bad – good in that he didn't have to throw out the pills, because he liked not being in pain, but bad because that didn't explain why there was someone in the car with him.

"Good evening, Mr. DeMarco. Nice of you to be with us again," the man greeted him in an odd, snooty accent.

Eyeing the man up and down, he took in his appearance. He looked normal enough – well-combed brown hair, a matching mustache, and a plush red robe like he'd seen actors wear when doing parodies of high-brows mimicking Masterpiece Theater. Whoever he was, he also possessed a traditional-looking smoking tobacco pipe, which appeared unlit. Talk about tacky.

"Am I dreaming? Because I've been getting that feeling a lot, lately," Trent blurted out, blatantly staring in befuddlement.

"No, my dear boy, you're very much awake. Not aware, perhaps, but awake."

"Okay," he said, deliberately slow, "then can you explain why you're here? Last I checked, nobody was sitting in the driver's seat, and I find it uncool that some random guy gets to drive the fancy sports car and not me. I was here first, you know."

Trent was a man of priorities, and he could admit that he was feeling a bit lonely without his truck's wheel to hold – may it rest in peace, that beautiful vehicle. He'd let it slide up until now since the car he was sitting in had made it clear that it didn't need him to get around, a fact he had grown used to, and apparently just in time to witness Tracks handing over control to someone else. What nerve.

Were he not in the position to still be working off the side effects of his prescription, he might have been more disturbed that someone was in the car with him, when they were supposed to be on the run and avoiding anybody that looked remotely suspicious. Who knew how many spies or bounty hunters had it out for them? And the way this person was dressed definitely spelled 'suspicious', considering he looked ready to sip red wine in the comfort of a personal library and not take a drive across the country.

But after the last couple of nights he'd had, Trent was starting to become accustomed to the unusual. What could top alien robots? Anything else that came along was only second best compared to that.

"Mr. DeMarco," the man started, acquiring his attention, "I'm a hologram."

To demonstrate what that was, the man flickered, like an old television getting bad reception or a computer monitor going on the fritz, before extinguishing altogether. Startled, Trent scrambled for the wheel, ingrained habits dictating he get control of it before they veered off the road and crashed. Grabbing hold, he tried to keep it straight, but it wasn't necessary. It was carefully navigating itself.

"You have no faith in me whatsoever, do you?" Tracks deadpanned rhetorically.

Feeling sheepish, he retracted his hand and resumed sitting in his seat.

"Tracks? You can…since when can you do that?" he asked, incredulous. The car had neglected to mention the ability, nor had he used it up until that point.

"Maintaining a hologram requires vast amounts of energy, and in my condition, I have to use it sparingly. At night it was easier to travel without a driver, but I have been picking up increased attention out in the open like this. I'm not familiar with your required resting regimen and did not wish to disturb you, so to keep our cover, I temporarily activated it."

"Well, I'm awake now; I can scoot over. If you're feeling tired yourself, I can even drive for you," he ventured, already moving over into the unoccupied seat.

Trent got the impression that the alien would choose to go careening over a cliffside rather than resort to his expertise, despite not receiving a confirmation on Tracks' exact thoughts on the suggestion. He couldn't quite explain how he knew that. Rolling his eyes, he expected no less; it'd been worth a try, at least.

"No driving; got it. But seriously, don't you things need to rest, too? Or to eat? When was the last time you really stopped?"

"We don't require as much rest as you humans do," Tracks pointed out, but with a musing lilt to it as he added, "But I am running low on energy."

"I spotted a notice a couple feet back about a fuel depot coming up in two miles. Maybe we can get you something there?"

The car agreed, following the upcoming directions to a small off ramp that led to a town which didn't constitute being called a town. It was very small, the few homes they passed no doubt lived in by the owners of the gas station and the sparse shops and restaurants. As they started to pull up, Tracks asked, "How does the refueling take place?"

"I've got some prepaid cards from my friends; I can use those instead of credit cards, and I'll get out to handle the pump. It's pretty simple – what kind of gasoline do you take? Any favorite flavor?" he joked, the humor short-lived as Tracks put on the breaks and stopped dead center in the entrance of the gas station.

"_Gasoline?_ As in, organic-based fuel? You can't put that decomposed rubbish inside of me! It'll _ruin me!_" Tracks cried, car alarm going off in distress. "The gasoline will clog my precious engine and infect my gears! I'll _only_ accept synthetic of the purest quality!"

"Can we discuss your diet somewhere that isn't blocking the way in?" Trent yelled, having to shout because it was difficult to be heard over the fuss Tracks was making. Cars had started to form a line behind them, the impatient and rowdier ones honking their horns. In his frustration, the jock gave them all the middle finger. Tracks made another sound of sorrow, but reluctantly obliged, pulling all the way in and parking to one side, notably nowhere near the pumps.

"I refuse to intake any of that disgusting excuse for fuel. I won't stand for this."

"Okay, _okay!_ Calm down, no one will make you drink the big, bad gasoline. I don't know where we're going to get you synthetic, though. Are you sure you won't-"

"No. Never. I'd sooner be deactivated."

"Fine. Then what are your other options?"

Trent picked up a sound akin to steam being released from inside the hood. It resembled a sigh.

"I am…capable of absorbing your sun's radiation, but that will slow our progress. While my make is a step up from the basic essentials, what I am able to absorb and convert during the day won't take me to the end of our journey."

"Any others?"

"Not currently, no."

"Great," Trent scoffed. "_Just_ great. Well, while you begin tanning, I'm going to the bathroom."

In the excitement of their last stop, he'd forgotten to go, but now that they were conveniently here, he wasn't going to waste the opportunity. He took his time about it, needing to stretch his legs and give his ribs some space.

While washing his hands in the restroom, he bumped his hip against the sink, and the sound of his cell phone unexpectedly chiming on made him jump. He had been convinced that it was broken, the casing severely damaged, and hadn't bothered to check whether or not it did work. Reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled it out to see the cracked screen alight, unable to believe his good fortune. Flipping it open to check and see if he had service, one to two measly, fluctuating bars let him know that here, in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, he did not. However, there was enough there to allow his phone to store some messages.

Putting it to his ear and activating the system, the first message to fill his head was from his friend from New York, Michael:

"H-hey, Trent, buddy? Where are you? Some bad shit- I mean, _shit_, the parking lot was blown up or something and I know you went back to find your keys and I haven't seen you back yet. I'm fine, but. Dude, call me?"

And the next one, too.

"Seriously, dude. I'm starting to freak the fuck out here. Where are you? Call me!" and quieter, before the man hung up, "Jesus Christ, if you're dead I'll-"

"Son, this is your father speaking. Call me."

At the third message, Trent audibly gulped at the tone of his dad's voice. No explanations for the unexpected call (though he could come up with several reasons), no clarification (not that he needed it), just an order for him to contact him (or else). He'd deal with that particular message later. Way later.

"Trent DeMarco, this is Mr. Simmons speaking," a man said. Trent didn't recognize the name or the voice in the message, but a powerful sense of déjà vu overcame him hard enough to send the hair on the back of his neck straight up. Without knowing why, he set his jaw.

"You don't know me, of course, but I know _you_. I've done a lot of research on you, Trent. You should get a better password than '123456' for all your accounts. And by the way, does Mikaela Banes know you posted that suggestive picture of her on Facebook?"

His grip tightened on the cell phone, his teeth definitely clamping together now.

"Anyway, I think I have made my point clear, and I'll get right to the center of things: you've come in contact with a N.B.E. – that's Non-Biological Entity for short – and we need to have a little talk about that. Running off with that car has put you in a lot of trouble, mister, and we-"

The message was cut off, the devoid voice pre-programmed on his phone informing him of the next message, the other one having gone on too long.

"Stupid, piece of shit Nokias. Can't stand those little- Oh, sorry, got cut off back there. As I was saying – we won't stop until we find you, kid. We can track your credit cards, your cell phone – _nothing_ is sacred. You sneeze and we'll be there, because we're bigger than you, we're better at this than you, and you'd be saving yourself a lot of hassle by turning yourself and your little out-of-town-visitor in. Tata for now."

"You have no more messages."

Rigidly, Trent shut off his cell phone and returned it to the same place as before, taking a moment to collect himself. His friend probably thought he was dead, his father probably wanted him dead, and that Simmons guy, who Trent was 99.9 percent sure was involved in that attack group that had tailed him and Tracks in New York, was probably going to make him dead.

"'Ey, you done in there yet?"

Remembering where he was, he unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out, mumbling a bunch of words together that might have been an apology, and headed back to the blue corvette still situated where he'd left it. The door opened of its own accord, allowing him to slide back into the driver's seat.

"Are you well? You appear…troubled? Is that the right word?"

"I'm not troubled," he said too quickly. "This is my hungry face. I'm really hungry. Again."

"Do all males your age consume as much as you do? You seem positively crazed with the idea."

"I'm a growing boy. I'm supposed to want to eat this much," he stated blandly, not interested in eating at all. The excuse was the first thing that came to him in time. After that phone call, he wasn't sure when the next time he'd be interested in eating would be.

"So long as you keep it clean. This interior had best be spotless by the time you're finished. I take great pride in my appearance, I'll have you know," Tracks saw fit to inform him, starting up again and taking off.

"…I hadn't noticed."

They got back onto the highway, Trent nervously tapping his fingers along the door. After the events of that day, he was having trouble keeping his nerves calm. The longer he was on this impromptu ride, the more real the situation was becoming, and he didn't like that. It was making him paranoid and agitated, wondering what else could go wrong next. Where was MacGyver or Batman when he needed them to get him out of a jam?

"So, uh, what's the game plan? I mean, what are we going to do next?" he asked, looking to Tracks for any sense of direction.

"We will have to do most of our traveling at night, with the daytime reserved for my recharging. Where we go during the time we are moving will be up to you, seeing as you know the way."

"Right, cool," Trent said, easing back into the seat as best he could. There wasn't much to the plan, but it was enough to get them by, and he could live with that.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Translations**: (1) "Good day." (2) "How much is a burrito?"

**Credits**: To Jyuu, who celebrated another birthday during the process of this story, so here's to a second chance for me to say "yay!" to her for being a year wiser and for inspiring this story, to my beta reader and Spanish translator for this chapter, Cassandra Cassidy, who is still dedicated enough to keep reading over these monster chapters despite the increased likelihood of all these pages driving her insane, to Nri, for translating what French I needed, and to the article _How Many Languages Are There In the World?_ by Stephen R. Anderson for getting me a rough number to put. A link to the article in question is up on my profile page.


	5. May I

The Proper Etiquette

By Snare-chan

**Pairings**: Mentions of Trent/Mikaela, Sam/Mikaela  
**Ratings**: T  
**Category(ies)**: Adventure/AU  
**Warning(s)**: Cussing, violence, spoilerish for the 2007 movie  
**Status**: Continuation, 5/?  
**Summary**: (2007 Movie Verse) What was supposed to be a testament to his final summer turned out to be a race back home for his life.

**Notes**: Been awhile, hasn't it? I've had this chapter sitting in my documents folder, gazing at me whenever I ventured into it, much like a homeless kitten would through a bedroom window during a rainy night in fall. For the longest, most _ridiculous _time it was stuck at ten pages, with me unable to figure out how to finish this section and move on.

I'm pleased that I was able to finally gather the time to jot down what was needed, and I hope the extensive wait was worth it! Thank you for your tolerance, everyone, as I gradually make my way through this story. I continue to appreciate all the comments!

I went back and edited some inconsistencies with the formatting, because apparently I couldn't make up my mind on how I wanted to organize things and I missed the fact I had tried different methods. I have also added violence to the warnings, something I thought I'd done already, and I just want everyone to be aware of it in case it wasn't clear already that there's going to be some beat downs. Nothing in the previous chapters have been changed as far as plot is concerned, so please do not feel you must go back and re-read anything! I apologize if these two instances have caused readers problems, and hopefully it clears up any confusion.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Transformers; wish I did like everybody else. They should put TF in stock, then I'd buy it all!

* * *

Chapter Five –

**Leaving the state of Illinois**

It was sprinkling out. At the beginning of the storm it had showered, the rain coming down too hard to see. Like a picture of an old-fashioned curtain, the water had poured in sheets. Back then, which was maybe around thirty-forty minutes ago, Trent had understood pulling over. If he'd been in control of the vehicle, he wouldn't have taken the risk, but when the clouds were _spitting_ at the ground, he'd have charged onward like a trooper. He wasn't afraid of getting wet.

Tracks, on the other hand, abhorred the rain. The car hated it to a degree that Trent hadn't realized a living being or metal invader could, the blue car complaining nonstop about the different reasons precipitation was a hindrance, an annoyance and an altogether awful, horrible, despicable thing to put up with. Something about acid content and cold temperatures and he didn't _know_ _what_ anymore, because he'd stopped listening.

He rested his arm along the protrusion of door under the window that sometimes served as an armrest and squished his face against the glass, eyes practically rolling back in his skull as he wondered how hard he could slam his head against it and knock himself out to spare himself from the other's stream of reasoning – preferably without causing permanent trauma. Trent's other hand habitually rested on the gear shift, not that he could have used it to encourage the other to _get going_, since it was always the one in such a hurry; of course, in the one instance Trent was prepared to get going, Tracks had no interest in budging.

Irony could suck it.

"How can you creatures stand such conditions?" Tracks said for what must have been the one-hundredth and second time that day, in a mixture of awe and utter repugnance. "How often does this occur? Is it common in your region? I was unable to access weather reports in the time I was allotted to do so, thus I'm unsure."

"I guess not. I mean, sort of. Not really."

"…Is that a no?" the corvette asked.

"Maybe."

Trent had lost interest in talking, and was making it clear. Not that he had _ever_ been interested, but he was never good at feigning how he felt or what he was thinking. He reminded himself of those little tree frogs he loved at the zoo; the ones that pimped themselves out with bright colors to give predators a warning – Do Not Eat Me, Or You"ll Die Of Poisoning! Those ones. Like them, his body language was a good indication for people to either cater to his whims or get out of his way. Right now, Trent was silently requesting the other to shut its proverbial trap, since outright snapping at it was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Not just yet.

To his relief, Tracks, while not going quiet, took the path of least resistance and changed topics. The radio swished a bit, kind of like someone clearing their throat, and accompanied the soft pitter-patter of water hitting the pavement in front and in back of them. They had taken refuge beneath an underpass and rested on the side of the road, closer to the grass. No one had passed them for miles, meaning the vehicle's whining had been their only source of noise.

"Would it be far too forward of me to ask you something?"

Such a dumb question tempted Trent to retaliate by pointing out that the other owed him a new truck, had essentially kidnapped him, and was forcefully dragging him across the country, so what was a little interrogation? He quelled it before he could contemplate how to add the necessary, biting sarcasm to make it work.

Instead, he said, "Shoot."

"Shoot…what?"

"It means you can go ahead and ask me."

"Ah, I see. It's about this phenomenon your people call 'music'. I was curious whether you could detail its purpose to me."

Trent perked up with interest. No matter how old someone got, or how the times changed, or wherever someone went, there was a pretty common factor that everyone could relate to, and that was music. He didn't know what the world thought, but in the one culture he _did_ know, young adults and US citizens specifically, this was a topic he could endlessly discuss.

His mom had told him all the stories about what kinds of classical tunes she'd played when he was a baby, her parenting books detailing how a child listening to it at an early age would become smarter. Once he was old enough to figure out his own tastes, he'd gone and changed them to accommodate what was 'in' and what wasn't.

"Well, you see…," he hesitated, at first having been excited to let loose, but unsure where to start. Music was such common knowledge that to outline it to an individual who had little, or _no_ experience with it whatsoever, was hard for him to detail.

"I'm no expert on why or how the whole…tradition started, but it's usually described as a way to express ourselves. Like painting or…uh, other expressive stuff."

"I…see."

The robot obviously didn't.

"I'd be able to explain it better if I had an example to work with", Trent scowled. "But my mp3 player isn't with me; probably toasted or lost by now."

"Oh! I may be able to help with that," Tracks said. The radio lit up more than before and buttons pushed themselves. Numbers ranging one to one-million flashed at random, before settling in the thousands. Then, classical music came out of all the speakers, a full orchestral piece with a harp in it and everything.

"How about this?"

"…Let's see what else you got," Trent ventured after a beat, the song already putting him halfway to sleep, and without the other's permission he fiddled with the controls until he happened upon a song he recognized. The Black Eyed Peas' My Humps blared through the interior of the car, rattling the windows and causing Trent to bob his head.

"Now _that's_ what I call good music!"

"Why is that?" Tracks asked, toning it down to be heard over the singing. "I much prefer that previous piece to _this._"

"Don't you worry, you're new to this. I'll train you in the way of the non-tone deaf and have you recognizing the difference between rap and crap in no time. This particular song is amazing because…"

The rain was forgotten, and when it had ceased completely – the only indication of its presence the light gray clouds lingering overhead – neither of the two occupants on the road cared to take notice.

* * *

**Close to Dighton, Kansas**

Munching on some off-brand potato chips and Doritos, Trent mixed and matched the different types by forming tiny sandwiches with them. He enjoyed playing with his food, having never been broken of the habit, and in this particular instance, he was layering the different kinds. Doing so vastly improved their flavor, and got rid of the nasty aftertaste his medication left behind.

Tracks had finished taking a break to recharge his battery or soak up some sun juice – whatever it is alien robots did to get pumped up again when they were being too persnickety about what kind of fuel they would or would not ingest. They were making good progress still, since they'd been burning rubber ever since.

In a way, it was pleasant to be able to just sit back and let someone else handle the work of traveling. When Trent had done it by himself, he'd concentrated strictly on the road or finding specific stops to make, but this way allowed him to enjoy the scenery and take in the nearby sights with ease. It still felt _weird_, especially since he remained in the driver's seat and instinct told him his foot should be on that escalator or have at least one hand on the wheel, but it felt weirder to leave them there and feel the machine moving without his instruction.

So he feigned it, keeping his hands in his lap or occupied with food, and refrained from falling asleep to give away their cover. The windows had to remain un-tinted to allow _more_ sunlight inside, Tracks taking every effort to gather as much as possible and limit what actions he took. It was finding that resting at night kept them on a similar schedule and used less energy.

On some backwater, country road made of dirt and other Earth-ground things that made Tracks take it slow (not wanting to ding his exterior or scratch his paint), they'd make it to Nevada in three years.

"I don't see why you're maintaining five miles per hour. You took _bullets_ and came out unscratched; in fact, for as busted as you claim to be, you're pretty new looking," Trent said, finishing off his junk food.

"It's internal damage," Tracks quipped, and if he'd had a nose to stick up in the air, the robot surely would have. "Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir!" (1)

"Yeah, well."

He didn't get to finish his thought, which worked in his favor, because he didn't have a comeback ready for a comment made in French, not knowing what the other had said. Police alarms had sounded back a ways and to the right side of the road, a black and white careened out of nowhere – kicking up grass and clods of soil as it barreled after them.

"Are you kidding me? What does that guy think he can ticket us for?" the jock groaned. This was bad, and thought on top of that – if those secret agents were still on his tail, having a cop write them up could get him dragged to jail. Trent refused to serve time in the slammer – he'd heard too many stories about what went on in there to risk getting sent.

"Fuck, seriously, where did this yahoo even come from?" Trent continued to grouse, and tried to correct his rumpled appearance to zero success. A hobo driving a sports car would be a _little _suspicious, he figured, but his clothes were wrinkled beyond his means of righting them and his smell couldn't be helped. Of all the cars to kidnap him, he had to be in the one without a single air freshener. He buckled his seat belt, hoping it'd lessen the reasons for him to get busted.

"Just take it easy and let me do the talk-"

Without preamble, Tracks was zooming off like his trunk was on fire. Grit flew out from under his tires before the treads caught on the loose road, and a cloud of dust surrounded them in a shroud before the car outshot it, the cloud now trailing behind them.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa!_ What do you think you're doing? Avoiding the law is a stupid move!"

"That is no officer of any human law as you know it," Tracks said, and though Trent didn't believe it, he swore there was a thread of panic in the vehicle's voice. "Hang on!"

Trent's protests were interrupted as the other pulled an evasive maneuver, narrowly avoiding the police car as it shot out of the cover of dirt and tried to ram them. Trent had no alternative but to do as ordered, hands gripping the diagonal strap of the seat belt in a steely grip. It was the sole thing keeping him from becoming a smear inside the car as the corvette dove away from their pursuer. At one point, the two cars were side-by-side, and Trent looked over to see the person-less inside of the adjacent vehicle. His own fear mounted.

"Not _another_ one of you guys…" he whimpered, considering the fact he had yet to get accustomed to the one.

Tracks swerved and the momentum carried them so far that for a couple minutes the blue corvette was going _backwards_, its front bumper facing the other car's, until it glided into a righted position to the side of the road and kept going. The move didn't throw their chaser off in the slightest, not keeping it from aiming to either force them off the road, slam into them or both.

"Putain de merde! (2)" Tracks gritted, the tone uncharacteristic to how the other normally sounded, and it gave Trent the feeling it was a colorful curse. If they survived the encounter, he might just ask what that phrase meant – he might not care much for an entire language, but learning how to insult someone anywhere had its merits. Who knew if someday he might need it?

"Ah, pardon the slip with my tongue back there. Also, this is going to hurt."

That warning – if it could be called that, since Trent was unsure if it was directed at him or at itself, soon became clear, because the driver's side door opened and his restraint retracted, allowing him to be flung out. He had a split second to tuck and roll, hands covering his head for protection and the grass marginally (_very_ marginally) stopped his tumble. A rock or piece of discarded glass cut into the length of one arm, but he didn't even notice. He landed flat on his back, facing the road, and just in time to see the most bizarre sight he'd seen to date (or maybe the second, or the third, or…the sight was weird, definitely in his top ten).

Tracks…_changed_, for lack of a descriptive way of putting it, blue paneling peeling back to reveal wiring and metal components that shifted in unpredictable ways. A torso became apparent, then arms and legs sprouted, and lastly, a head, whose face was so black that he could only make out the eyes, their brightness making them stand out.

Oh, and guns. All over its body. Tracks was _packing._

The corvette, which no longer resembled one at _all_, got off two shots from a shoulder mounted cannon. The police car evaded both attacks and leapt, transforming in midair and tackling the other straight to the ground. The fight escalated at an alarming rate, Trent unable to follow half of it, even when the giant robots started arguing, since they were talking in techno. For awhile, he wasn't aware they _were_ talking, the beeps, screeches and vibrations mixed in with the sounds of combat.

The Evil Robot, as Trent dubbed it, who had hunted them, looked to be winning. It was ripping the blue sports car apart with long, silver claws whose size almost reached Trent's height in length. Parts went flying as it swiped and took a chunk out of Tracks' side, causing a shower of sparks to erupt. His ride attempted to retaliate with a set of his own; molten red nails sprouted from both its hands and raked across the police car's face in the perfect execution of a bitch slap.

Deciding that lying around while this was happening was a bad idea, Trent forced himself up and limped closer to the line of trees; the same direction the battle eventually went in, but his only other option was a ditch. He'd take his chances with the forest. His body slumped against a tree just as Tracks was bodily thrown against the tree line, leaving a deep trail in its wake.

Tracks wasn't getting back up.

A foot slammed down on its midsection, _ensuring _that it stayed in place. The Evil Robot's hand morphed into some kind of ball of death, oddly shaped spikes and pointy, sharp protrusions sprouting. The weapon was attached to a chain as the police car pulled it free and swung it above its head in a threatening circle. It said something to Tracks, demanding and cruel, to which the corvette coolly informed it of something that had the mustang's posture imply un-amusement.

While they were fighting, Trent climbed a tree. This tree was of average height, about sixteen-some feet and matched the two struggling robots. An effort that wouldn't have taken his younger self more than a couple minutes to attempt took him the entirety of the battle up to this time to complete, body sagging against the branches once he'd reached a certain point.

And then he dared to be stupid.

"Hey, _pig_," Trent shouted, the action causing his chest to constrict, but his painkillers were holding and the adrenalin coursing through his body allowed him to forget about the pain for a solid minute. He braced his feet on the branch he stood on and pulled on another, leaning back and using gravity to his advantage.

The police car, to its credit, wasn't that deterred. It remained firmly in place, tool poised to strike, and two of its four red eyes shifted in his direction. Too late it realized his intentions, as Trent let his handle on the tree branch go as soon as he'd finished with his taunt. The wood struck the same side of its head that Tracks had struck earlier, and the force applied this time shattered both the wood and the entire side of the other's face.

It cried out in a mix of fury and pain, the leeway the distraction provided giving Tracks the chance to shoot the enemy in the midsection and send them stumbling back into a tree. Tracks got up and grabbed the spiky ball and threw it, the chain wrapping around the police car and the tree, with the pointy end embedding itself into the bark near the enemy's head, effectively trapping it. Struggling, the mustang was reduced to growling and half-mangled, death-threat sounding, metallic cries. Tracks ignored the tantrum, instead straightening as best it could (one hand clutching its side) and walking over to Trent, who was stuck. When he'd let the branch fly he'd tumbled and gotten wedged between some branches and their leaves.

"Where are you hurt?" Tracks demanded, intelligent enough to forgo the redundant question of whether or not he was injured. After a stunt like that, of course he was beaten up a tad. It retracted its claws and gingerly removed him from the tree.

"I'm cool, I'm fine," he replied automatically, to the contrary. "Never felt better."

"Then remain here, I'm going to scout around and make sure our guest came alone."

"As if I would require back up destroying a meek warrior such as you," the police car spat, speaking for the first time in English. Understanding what it had to say wasn't a comfort; no matter what it said, since its tone remained a constant promise of pain. Gone was its semblance of composure, instead replaced with unbridled rage.

Trent stared between the two, eyes lingering longer on the still struggling monstrosity tied up to a tree.

"You're not leaving me here _alone_ with that thing, are you?"

"Yes. I won't be longer than a moment."

"You're wasting your time, Autobot."

Tracks continued to ignore the Evil Robot, pretending not to hear or see him, and set Trent on his feet.

"_Stay_," he said, and then was gone, not leaving Trent time to remark that he wasn't some dog to command. Furthermore, how a giant machine could blend in with the plants was beyond his understanding, and it happened so fast that he wasn't able to examine the process.

Gulping, he looked over to the seething police car, whose four red eyes were concentrating on him; like how a scientist might view a specimen they were considering dissecting. He didn't much like that look.

"So," Trent said, not finishing the thought since it hadn't been a complete one to begin with.

The thing had no reserves about giving a clear reply, hacking what seemed to be a robo-lugie at him. Trent dodged it, the liquid mess landing somewhere behind him, out of sight. He could hear the hiss of something sinking into the grass and dissolving whatever it touched.

"_Don't _think you have the right to speak to me, waste!" it snarled at him.

"Aww, pissed about the shiner I gave you, huh? Don't worry, I bet the ding can be welded out," he said, terrified from his hair to his toes, but bullying came second nature to him. "I'm sure no one will notice the whole missing-half-your-ugly-mug thing."

The tree the mustang was trapped against started to bend dangerously, a couple cracking sounds making Trent jump and scramble back. It held.

"Laugh while you are still able, _boy_, because once the Decepticons gather, there will be no hope for you left! Extermination is in your near future."

"If the rest of your buds fight as shitty as you do, I think me and Tracks could take you all on ourselves."

"Hah! You're foolish enough to think the Autobots care about what you flesh creatures think? It's a wonder your species has reached the top of the food chain with such a poor sense of self-preservation."

"I'm plenty smart – and definitely smart enough not to believe anything you have to say."

The car laughed then, a deep, dark cackle that caused the skin along his arms and the back of his neck to crawl. A sound like that was better suited to a horror movie or video game than real life.

"And that's why you'll be defeated. Even if we lose to the Autobots, there's no hope for you. What use do we superior creations have for you? I'm positive that once Tracks has achieved what he needs from you, you'll have little to worry about save for keeping alive."

He wanted to argue that the other was wrong and a liar, to yell until his lungs gave out. The Evil Robot had tried to beat the carburetor out of Tracks, why _should _he believe him?

_Because he'd doubted the corvette's sincerity, and hearing his deepest worries brought to light revitalized his hesitation and distrust._

"Let me give you some helpful advice," the police car droned on. "Get out, before Tracks' CPU catches up with his foolish notions of charity. You don't _deserve _to be with one of us. You might carry on to see the full extent of our war that way, if survival means anything to you to begin with."

"You're so full of yourself," Trent said, releasing the full extent of his dismissive manner, cocky attitude remaining as a front as he reached both hands into his pockets to hide his shaking hands. It hadn't occurred to him that maybe, being with his own people would be more advantageous than with an alien race he doesn't comprehend. Had he misunderstood? Were those agents trying to actually save him? But then, what was with the bullets? The threatening phone messages? Which was the lesser evil: government paid agents or Terminator?

Nothing was making any sense anymore.

Discretely, he turned his cellphone back on as he realized the police car had gone suspiciously silent, and Trent gave it critical glance. Whatever it was or wasn't attempting was pushed to the back of his mind because Tracks returned in a hurry, grabbing him around the middle and running full tilt without breaking its wide strides. In this form, it was able to step over tree stumps and rivers without breaking step, and the constant juggling made him nauseas.

"What's going on?" he shouted, his answer coming a moment later in the form of incoming police sirens and helicopters. Either clones of the Evil Robot were incoming, or those men and women from before were onto them.

"What did you do?" Trent rephrased, accusatory.

"Not _now_, Mr. DeMarco!"

Tracks stumbled then, partially because of a sudden dip in the terrain, and partially because they were being _shot at._ Trent could make out the pinging of bullets ricocheting off the metal parts of Tracks' frame, and he felt the collar of his shirt tear as a bullet connected.

"Wait, he's got the boy!" he heard someone cry in surprise, and then anguished uproars as the people shooting at them no doubt ran into the police car that had ambushed them. A tree collapsing in the distance and an electronic scream aided that assessment.

Tracks stopped, careening into a tree when it couldn't halt fast enough, and jostled Trent in the process. The robot gave off the impression that it was indecisive, and when Trent thought they were going to hightail it back the way they'd came, rapid gunfire lit up the dark forest with its fireworks display, and Tracks resumed their retreat. There was nothing left they could do here.

* * *

To Be Continued…

**Translations**: (1) "It's better to prevent than to cure." (2) "Fucking hell/shit", roughly.

**Credits**: To Jyuu, someone who continues to be patient and understanding with the pace at which I'm writing this story for her when a lesser person would have given up on expecting progress, Dreaming of Everything, who courteously volunteered to look this chapter over last minute, and Nri, who continues to guide me in the way of the French language, since I wouldn't know a hello from a goodbye without her assistance.


End file.
